


One Hope, Then Another

by spindlekiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, M/M, Post-War, Russia, Russian Revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:11:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spindlekiss/pseuds/spindlekiss
Summary: The Grand Duchess Andromeda Lyra Pollux Tonks nee Black, formerly of the Imperial Empire, has issued a reward of one million euros to the man or woman who can reunite her with her beloved nephew, the lost Tsarovich of Russia, who has been missing since the February Revolution of 1917. Harry Potter, a down on his luck con with his eye on the prize, sees this as the perfect opportunity, now, if only he could find himself a lost prince…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by howsyourkneewalking’s prompt on tumblr, this idea wouldn’t leave me alone, though [warning] there are more in depth references to the tragedies and political ramifications of the Russian revolutions here than made it into the twentieth century fox animation of Anastasia. Hope that's okay!

**— PART ONE —**

_**AN EXCERCISE IN DIPLOMACY** _

 

**Introduction**

_Let us start from the very beginning. Imagine a family; elegant, refined, in command of a vast territory spanning the width of two continents. They have ruled here for 300 years, and it seems as though they will continue to do so for eternity. The year is 1894, Abraxas Septimus III, emperor of Russia, has died, struck down by a sudden illness. His son, the Tsarovich Lucius Abraxas Septimus II, still in mourning, takes a wife and assumes leadership. This is what he was born to do._

 “Do you swear it?” Lucius murmured.

“Of course, my darling.” Narcissa replied, stroking his cheek gently.

It had come as a shock to her, falling in love so very completely. Narcissa had known since she was a little girl that love was the one liberty of the poor, and only the poor. This, for a short while, had saddened her, but she had always found solace in her gowns and the parties thrown regularly by her mother. Later, the prospect of a strategic marriage had brightened her day, and given her hope for the future.

“I want to be a great ruler, the very best.” said Lucius, he rolled away from her, and stared up at the ceiling. “Better than my father.”

His hand stayed draped across her stomach. She loved him, loved him.

“Promise me,” he said. “Promise me, my beautiful.”

“I promise,” Narcissa replied, praying to God that he not make a liar of her. “I promise I will give you a son.”

 

  
**1896 : Moscow**

 _The day of the official coronation ceremony approaches. Special coins are minted, famous artists are employed. Lucius and Narcissa pose in military regalia and a fashionable crinoline gown respectively to have their photographs taken. They will be printed soon, and sold for five kopek each on Zemstvo stamps. It has been two years since they consummated their holy union, and yet, Narcissa has not yet borne an heir. Instead, three lilies sit permanently atop the mantle of the Mauve room where Narcissa writes her letters; three lilies for three unborn children._  

They arrived at Petrovsky Palace in a gilt carriage drawn by six fine black horses. The carriage, and royal pair, were surrounded entirely by a magnificent spectacle, His Majesty’s Own Escort, a well-oiled military machine that seemed to Lucius a grand representation of Russia’s Imperial pride and glory.

The regiment marched beside them, arms and legs moving in synch like a particularly meticulous clock. Foot-soldiers, aided by the cavalry, had spent the whole morning clearing the streets, and now, they lined them, moving in time to music that played loudly throughout the city.

They passed through the Kremlin, pausing a moment to admire the cathedral of the late Saint Basil. A dense mass of lower class citizens lined it’s steps to catch a glimpse of the nearly inaugurated.

Lucius and Narcissa payed their respects to the Blessed Virgin of Iver, it was Malfoy tradition, and one of the most holy sites in the city. Priests and Fathers of every church they passed came out to bless them.

The gun salute was glorious, and the ringing of the bells that quickly followed was music to Lucius’s ears. The procession was going splendidly, and such a thing could only be a good omen. A veritable sign of the glorious rein that was sure to come.

When they finally reached the Assumption Cathedral, the doors were closed behind them quickly, and it was quiet once more. Noiselessly, the nobility came to them with the full extent of the Imperial regalia. Lucius tested the weight of the orb and wondered if there was a metaphor in there, he held the globe in his hand and imagined himself to be Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders alone. Soon, he was dressed. He held the sceptre elegantly, and knew by the gleaming look of pride and respect in his wife’s eye that he cut a fine figure in his royal banners and crown. His neck ached under the weight of it, but he held his head high. Last but not least, he and Narcissa were both draped in the appropriate chains, twin crucifixes dangled at their chests, studded with jewels and tiny golden embellishments that carried certain air of renaissance. The effect was finalised by the addition of the traditional golden cloaks, lined throughout with white fur.

As the ceremony progressed, they made their confessions, and read from the Holy scripture. A royal vow was made, documents were signed, and the choir broke into song. Divine liturgy was commenced, and finally, the little prince, who had dreamed all his life of being a man, became a king, thus sealing his destiny for eternity.

It is something like a fairy tale, Lucius thought later, as he sat at his desk writing notes into his personal journal, I shall never forget this day, not for as long as I live…

 

  
**1904 : A Son At Last**

_Now, there are five lilies on the mantle. Tom Riddle, a new and widely respected court physician and holy guide advises that this, Narcissa’s sixth pregnancy, wether it be a success or a failure, should be her last. Lucius spends hours praying, begging for God to grant him the blessing of a healthy, long-lived wife, regardless of whether or not she can provide an heir._

The ninth month pulled to a close, and Narcissa was still heavily pregnant. Before, she had hated her body for destroying all of it’s children. Now, she wished that it wouldn’t be so accomodating.

She longed, in short, to meet her baby. And no matter how many assurances the physicians gave her, she longed for it to be out in the world, away from the womb that had failed so frequently in the past. She, like Lucius, took to prayer, wishing eternally for the safety of her child. She asked Him, meekly, if he might allow her to go into labour soon.

On the fifth of June, she did. Draco, a name selected years ago, came into the world pink and squalling, he was a miracle. Her little treasure, her son, her husbands heir. The midwife cleaned him, and swaddled him, and passed him to the milkmaid, who unbuttoned her chemise and allowed him to latch delightedly onto her breast. Narcissa fell back against her pillows, and dreamed about what Lucius would think. She was bone weary, but deeply relieved. She had fulfilled the promise made, all those years ago.

  
“A son!?” Lucius exclaimed from half way across the country.

He clutched the telegram excitedly, and wished half heartedly, that he had not endorsed this war with the Japanese, he might have witnessed the birth of his son, otherwise.

Lucius stood quickly, upending his desk chair and spilling a bottle of ink across several official papers.

If he forgot, in the next few moments, exactly how a Tsar was supposed to comport himself, then he could be forgiven. For rushing hazardously through army barracks to find both a car and an escort to take one safely and swiftly to witness a son and ascertain the state of ones wife is a perfectly natural course of action indeed.

“Draco,” thought Lucius as the driver pulled away from the military camp-grounds. “I will teach and love you, precious thing. God is truly generous.”

 

  
**A Brief List of Wrongs**

 _There is nothing so infuriating to a depleted public than a government that does not recognise the sacrifices that it has made for wars fought out of loyalty, rather than true unequivocal belief in a cause. By the end of the war against the Japanese; wives, sisters, and mothers mourned the loss of their men in complete and utter desolation. The winters seemed colder than ever, and food shortages that had come as a direct result of the monarchy’s investment in artillery, meant that women took to the fields as a matter of survival. The men who had survived, grieved for their sons and brothers, then, they began to talk._  

“It is a funny thing,” said one, “that our sons should be taken from us, just as the royal swine Lucius is provided with one.”

“And,” muttered another, darkly over his cups, “that while we starve and die here for lack of sustenance, there are over-indulgent feasts in every noble home.”

“And,” chimed a third, “that while we fought, and shed blood in a battle more fierce and deadly than any that came before, the aristocracy sat in their tents, planning which of us were cannon fodder. Like pigs for the slaughter.”

“We were pawns to them, and they never lifted a finger to ease our sufferage!” shouted one particularly riled man, a horseman, who had lost a leg and a finger, and was condemned to suffer pitying glances from all who glanced his way due to a terrifically scarified face. It would never heal completely.

“Have they ever lifted a finger, just in general?” asked another, chortling.

“Nay!” shouted the first man. “That’s what their underpaid staff are for, doubt they wipe their own arses.”

“Do we need them?”

“NO.” agreed the majority of the bar, their tones cried out, fuelled by injustice and liquor.

“God, we sound like Lenin devotees, treasonous like.”

“Maybe,” said the second man wonderingly, he was far enough into his cups that he could see the bright horizon of a new and prosperous country swirling about the bottom amidst the ice cubes, “That isn’t such a bad thing.”

 

  
**1914 : Draco Turns Ten**

 _‘He is surely the most monstrous little boy you ever set eyes on’ the head-maid was said to have whispered, quietly, to the master of saddle. And indeed, little Draco, Tsarovich and heir to all of Russia, was remarkably adept at throwing tantrums. Those who remarked upon his spoiled nature and rude treatment of those ‘beneath’ him, were sure to do so outside the hearing of his parents, both of whom were utterly devoted to him. Interestingly, the only relative who dared discipline him, was his Aunty, the Grand Duchess Andromeda, and he loved her dearly for it, following her about like a lost pup._  

On Draco’s tenth birthday, Aunty Andromeda was engaged to a frenchman. Though he received several presents, and enjoyed opening them, the prospect of losing a confidant grated at him, and he found it difficult to look forward to the party that would be held later that night.

Soon, Andromeda would go away, to live in Paris and leave Draco alone, possibly forever. It was something that Draco had wondered about, he had a naturally curious mind, and to him, the hoards of Russian aristocracy who were leaving Russia in droves seemed quite unusual to him. When he had asked his Father, he had received a convoluted answer that had swayed him against enquiring again, which he was sure was his fathers intention. Now though, that it was his own beloved aunty leaving, he wanted a proper answer.

“Why are you leaving Russia, Aunty Andromeda.” he asked from his place on the stool by her dresser.

Andromeda did not turn to face him, staring into the mirror instead. She unpinned her dark hair carefully, and it fell loose in long tresses. When he was a child, and young enough to be carried, he had loved her hair. The smell of it even now when they embraced was a childish comfort to him.

“Because I am in love,” Andromeda said eventually.

Draco wrinkled his nose. “I don’t see why, Sir Theodore is not so very special, I think.”

Andromeda laughed quietly. “That is because you are not in love with him, a great many things that once seemed mundane can be admirable in someone you have affection for.”

Draco, fancying himself quite adult, announced proudly. “One day, I shall fall in love. And I will command my sweetheart to love me back, and so we shall be wed.”

“Oh my darling,” said Andromeda, putting her silver hair brush down and chuckling. “I do not think it works like that.”

Why exactly, it didn’t work like that, Draco never found out. At that moment, a knock came at the door, it was the maid, come to dress Andromeda for the party. He was shooed out of the room very quickly after that. Outside in the hall he caught sight of Sir Theodore, and took special care to poke his tongue out rudely as he scurried by.

  
The party was long and boring. The adults, who Draco was inclined to think were rather dull, seemed to sway between to polarities, discussing in hushed whispers something that seemed very ominous and grown up, and gossiping loudly about various frivolities and scandals that had, of recent, been amusing the court. The divorce of Madame Paznakov seemed to be a particular source of amusement, and Draco counted at least three very shrill women laughing about the story cruelly.

He was rescued from another discussion about the many virtues of Doctor Riddle with Bellatrix by Andromeda.

“Oh, not this tired old tale,” said Andromeda as she came upon them. “Bellatrix, you terrible bore, I think I’ve heard you speak of this man’s supposed magical prowess at least twenty times by now, do find someone else to occupy yourself with, they say he’ll never marry. One of those funny sorts, finds flesh disturbing.”

“He is a great magician!” said Bellatrix. “How dare you speak so morbidly. Lord Voldemort is a holy and powerful man.”

“And you, my dear, are a fanatic, with too much time on her hands.” said Andromeda, gazing at her shrewdly. “And truly, is there anything so tasteless as falsified titles?”

“Shut up,” snapped Bellatrix, face turning stony and still. “I shall cut your hair off in the night if you speak against him.”

“I’m positively trembling with fear, come Draco.” replied Andromeda dryly, before leading him away from the ballroom.

“ _Putain! Putain! Salope de l’homme francais_.” shouted Bellatrix after them.

Several gasps were issued by the audience, and a hush came over the crowd.

“Superstitious hag.” said Andromeda under her breath as she hurried them away.

“It is foolishness,” she muttered as they walked through the entrance hall and up a flight of stairs. Draco got the distinct impression that she was not speaking to him. “Utter foolishness. Your Aunty Bellatrix and your parents will regret entrusting their secrets to that man, mark my words, he will betray them all.”

_Later…_

“Dromeda,” Draco said quietly, as they walked through the empty halls of the upper east wing. “You love me, don’t you?”

She paused, and crouched down, clutching his hand. “Draco, you must be strong now. Of course I love you, and I will visit often.”

“How often?” he asked petulantly, looking away from her and up at the austere painting of his great ancestor Septimus Nomen Malfoy. He had the same white blond hair, pale discerning eyes and regal posture that Lucius was possessed of. One day, Draco intended to carry himself with much the same command. For now though, he tried not to cower back from the wisened grey gaze that seemed to a ask what Draco thought he was doing, running about the palace, playing at being a good tsarovich?

“Often enough.” Andromeda replied, pulling a small package from a pocket tucked away in her skirts. “Here, I got you a birthday present.”

“What is it?” Draco asked excitedly, lifting a hand to grip Andromeda’s sleeve.

“A medallion,” she said. “It is to remind you of me.”

“It has the french coat of arms on it?” Draco said, he recognised the symbol and the colours from one of his school books.

“Yes, I hope you shall visit me someday.”

“Someday in Paris?” Draco asked.

“Someday in Paris,” Andromeda confirmed. “Keep me in your heart, and we will always be together. You are my favourite nephew, you know?”

Draco smirked, looking up at her with pale grey eyes. “I’m your only nephew.”

“Why of course,” Andromeda replied, smiling. “How could I forget. Now, why don’t we go visit your mother before she sends out a search party, hmm?”

Draco huffed. “Fine,” he said, and they continued down the hall, hand in hand.

  
_Two days later, Andromeda would leave for Paris with her new husband. They would never return to Moscow, or Russia. Draco knew that he could hardly expect her to travel through several of Europe’s boarders in the midst of a world war, but he would have liked to see her._

 

  
**1917 : Imperial Russia : Saint Petersburg**

_It is the year 1917, Alexander Palace sits at the heart of Saint Petersburg, a glittering jewel amidst the rough of Russia’s impoverished. Political tensions have reached an all time high, and for the first time in history the traditional Imperial regime, headed by proud monarch, Tsar Lucius Abraxas Septimus Orion Malfoy II, is being threatened. Civil unrest grows as food shortages continue, the people are starving. Tonight, there will be a ball._

 “Boy,” Draco exclaimed, staring pointedly up at the young servant who had just entered the ballroom with a large, crystal platter of pryanik. Lately, it was his favourite delicacy. Since Christmas, gingerbread had been his favourite flavour, and the cooks had been ordered to provide it nearly twice as often. “I order you to serve me my pryanik.”

The boy, who was rake thin, reminded Draco of the pet greyhound his Aunty Bellatrix had shot last month by the summer residence in Livadia. They had just began to disembarked their yacht, Standart, when the dog had rushed ahead, keen to be on land once more. Aunty Bella had screamed as it gambled past her on sea-shocked legs, it had brushed heavily against her skirts, leaving a trail of shed hair in it’s wake.

“Sit,” she had shrieked. “Sit, sit, sit!”

The dog had disobeyed. Naturally, she commanded one of the help to fetch her pistol. Another member of the staff had been enlisted to capture the dog.  
Draco remembered the way it had flopped about on the sand as it died, whining pitifully as it’s life was slowly drained away. Aunty Bella had laughed loudly, and said something very scathing to Draco’s father about the ‘appropriate way to handle rebels’. Draco had not been listening. He had never known that death could take so long. The blood, which had spilled more freely over the pristine sand than Draco ever could have predicted, was a particular surprise.

Draco was an imaginative child, his other aunty had told him that once, so perhaps he was mistaken, but before his Mother covered his eyes and led him away, he could have sworn that he saw the dogs’ heart, wet and crimson as it pulsated desperately for survival.

At first, the whole situation had irritated Draco very much, how was he supposed to lead armies into battle if he couldn’t even look at the blood of a pathetic little dog? One day, he would be emperor, just like his Father, and his Father’s Father. Draco was determined that he would maintain the reputation and legacy that his ancestors had carved out for him.

Later that night, he woke in a cold sweat, sat up quickly, and vomited. He’d been dreaming. As he sat shivering in the dark, covered in bile and sick, he wished, just a little, that the dog had lived.

Draco, who had grown up quite a lot since his Aunt had left, gave no physical hint as to the mental image he was trying quite valiantly to shake away. The nasty business didn’t bear thinking about, and so instead, he stared pointedly at the pryanik.

The boy set the platter down upon one of the long, mahogany banquet tables, and carefully served a miniature slice of the cake onto a tea plate. He handed the plate to Draco, and bowed slightly before returning hastily to the kitchen.

He bit into the pastry carefully, making sure no crumbs clung to his face or lips. Aunty Bella had once told him that only slovenly peasants allowed food to cling. Reminded, once again, of Aunty Bella, Draco abruptly lost his appetite. Glancing around surreptitiously to make sure that nobody was watching, he spat the bite out onto his plate and his it with a napkin. It was rather naughty of him he supposed, Andromeda had always said that he shouldn’t waste food, not when other children would dearly like even a portion of what was served to Draco. He had always wondered why these stupid children hadn’t simply asked the servants to get them some food of their own. He stashed the plate with the uneaten pryanik in a drawer in the hall, and then jumped when the boy, the greyhound boy from before, stepped out from behind a corner with an inscrutable expression. Something like rage, or hatred. Draco had never been hated before, or even exposed to such turbulent emotions. It was rather exciting.

He grinned at the boy, who turned red, and spat at him. Draco shouted loudly, and scrambled back in shock. A large gob of saliva dripped down from the side of his cheek, and he had never been so humiliated. "My brother starves," said the boy in scathing tones, "While rich boys like you don't eat the food they ask for."

Two guards rounded the corner then, and assessed the situation quickly. They did not stop to ask questions, they simply lifted the kitchen boy up by the arms and hauled him backwards.

“Stop,” shouted the boy. “Stop!”

They did not. Draco was frozen as the boy was dragged away down the hall. They locked eyes for one cold and terrible moment, before the boy began to scream again. “Help, you can’t do this. Pigs. Pigs. Stop.”

The shouts died down as the boy disappeared from the hallway. Draco wiped the spit from his face with his sleeve, and resolved not to tell his mother what had happened. He hoped the boy would be alright. Luckily, he knew that his father was a good man, and wouldn’t punish the kitchen peasant too harshly.

Much later, Draco heard a single gunshot from the eastern side of the castle. In recent weeks, he very much hated it when the guards took to target practice. It reminded him too strongly of the dog, spilling it’s guts messily into the sand. Draco resolved to await the beginning of the party in his old playroom. No one was supervising him, so he spent some time re-familiarising himself with his old train set. It was a fine, red steam engine, designed to run it’s course around the entirety of the room, wherever they had laid out the tracks. His mother had had it specifically commissioned one year when Draco had fallen briefly in love with the function of steam engines. He still liked them, to an extent, the uniformity of their mechanics, and the feeling he got, from looking at the inside, that everything within it had it’s own specific place, and worked precisely the way that it should. So very neat, so very admirable.

Some time later, his mother tracked him down for dressing. She ushered him into his room with one of the maids and small package sent direct from the designer. He would be attired in an olive green tunic, adorned by elaborate silver beads and embroidery. An ornamental sword sat at his hip, for the purpose of sentimentality, he attached his french medallion at his breast. He was ready for the ball.

The party began, so to speak, when the Malfoy family arrived. They entered the ballroom in a processions, two or three of Narcissa’s particular friends led the way. Then came Draco, who wished, briefly, that he could have entered first. His parents walked behind him, and they were a sight to see. Like the fine pair of dancers in his music box, dressed elegantly, effortlessly beautiful. Dancers could hold normal people in their thrall for hours upon end, Draco was willing to believe that his parents could manage for years.

He admired, for some time, the ballroom, before sitting by his father at the main table. Women and men whirled about the room in a flurry of vibrant colours. Skirts swung outward, and heels clicked in time to some of the very best traditional Russian dances. Draco would of course, be expected to dance with Lady Astoria, a young girl two years his inferior with whom Draco had been forced to associate most of his life. She was a wispy thing, with vacant eyes and a nature far too bookish in a female to tempt Draco. Recently, he had been discovering what it was to desire, or covet someone, and Astoria did not appeal to him in the least.

There was a storm raging outside, and so the men and women entering the room, were coming in with slightly damp hair, and sodden fur cloaks that the staff took upon themselves to hastily remove. Draco ate a few grapes lazily, these things hardly even amused him anymore. As he surveyed the ball, he couldn’t help but feel that he’d seen it all before. The uniform motion of the dancers would always enthral him, and he certainly enjoyed the ballroom, it glittered and shone like a jewel, th windows gleamed and the food looked delectable. However, there was a certain something lacking. He did not think that he had held a decent conversation at a party since his aunt had left. Bellatrix was hardly a good enough substitute. He heard a polite cough, and looked up. Astoria was making her way towards him, ushered along by her distinctly impatient looking parents. She looked rather disgruntled. Draco decided then, to do them both a favour. He stood suddenly, ducked behind one of the waiters, and scurried away down the servants halls.

He did not know at the time, but this would save his life.

The adults, had not in fact, been gossiping the usual gossip. If Draco had cared to notice, he would have realised that political discourse had, of late, become rather strained. A shift in the tides had been coming for years, and it was up to Lucius to bear the brunt of that shift. Several failed war efforts, food shortages, and a slump in the economy had been enough to start the whispers.

Seconds after Draco had left, Tom Riddle, known to his followers as the Lord Voldemort, left his table to speak with the Tsar. Lucius listened, and did not like what he heard.

“I will not be insulted in my own house,” said Lucius. “You are dismissed.”

“Traitor.” said Voldemort calmly. “Don’t mistake me, you and your family will pay for this insult.”

“Is that a threat, _Mister_ Riddle?” the comment was well placed, a cleverly constructed insult designed to remind the man of his place.

“No,” said Voldemort. “A curse. A curse upon your entire house. It won’t last long, not after this night. The time for forgiveness is passed. Judgement is now. I swear to you, that when you die, my face will be the last thing that you see. I will be the last thing you think of. We will see each other, much sooner than you think.”

“Guards,” called Lucius. “Escort this man from the palace.”

Two sturdy young men ran to assist. And Tom Riddle was dragged away from the ball room. He did not scream. Instead, he gave to both Lucius and Narcissa the most foreboding smile that has ever graced the face of man.

“Worthless man,” said Lucius to Narcissa quietly. “I regret letting him in.”

“Hmm,” Narcissa agreed quietly.

Then, the brick came through the window, and the riot began. Women and children screamed. Men drew their ornamental weapons. But, it was no use. It seemed as though every angry man in Russia might come through that window, they spewed forth in droves like hellions from the underworld. Their faces were black as pitch, covered entirely by engine grease. They had come to conquer, and conquer they did. Historians would call it the February Rebellion, the name, would never capture the true horror of the events that were about to unfold.

  
Draco, still wandering along the servants passage, hummed under his breath. Suddenly, there came a loud crash, and a number of people ran screaming into the passage from the direction of the kitchen. Among them, Draco recognised the cook, and one of the maids who regularly scolded him. Caught up in the momentum of their panic, Draco was pulled with them. Darkness swallowed the group as they rushed out the servants exit of the palace and into the grounds. When Draco finally managed to get away from the crowd, he looked up to the ballroom, only to see a tower of flame so high and full of fury that he doubted even one of his story book heroes could defeat it. He stumbled backwards, hands in the snow, there were people running everywhere. He crawled forward, he did not know where his parents were. Rain and wind attacked him from all angles, he struggled to see. Suddenly, a firm hand pulled him up by the collar. He couldn’t help it, he screamed.

“Draco! Draco, shhh!” said the voice. “You can’t let them know that you are here. God, they’ll kill you, and me.”

Draco turned his head and saw his uncle Rabastan. “Uncle,” he said. “What has happened?” 

“Your parents are in grave danger. It’s the rebellion. Our way of life is at stake. Run, Draco. You need to run. Get far away from this place.”

Draco nodded. He was so confused. Through the elements and the darkness, the ballroom was nothing but a fiery blaze. Why wouldn't it go out?

“Here,” said his uncle, pulling something from inside his vest. “Take this.”

It was a pistol. Draco had never used one. He grasped it gingerly.

“Draco. Run. Now.” said Rabastan, dropping Draco’s collar and pushing him forward. “Trust no one. God be with you.”

Fear and adrenalin set in. Draco’s blood pumped, and he heard more clearly than he ever had before. Screams and shouts filled the air. The fire roared it’s fury at the city. Draco sprinted into the woods, and did not look back. His parents would be fine. He would see them tomorrow. But for now, he obeyed his uncle, and evaded whatever cruel enemy had targeted them. Trees flashed by in a blur, and soon enough, Draco had run further into the grounds than he ever had been before. He was so concentrated on running fast and far, that he did not notice the dark figure in the bushes until it was too late. He tripped over the outstretched leg, and hurtled face first into the snow. He cried out in astonishment.

"What do we have here?" the voice was thick, and rural in intonation. 

"Let me be." said Draco. "I'm just trying to get away from the fire."

"Well I never," said the man in tones or great ponderance. "If it's not the little prince himself. Dressed all fine in his livery and jewels. There's some people's that'd pay a right hefty fee for you right now."

"Don't touch me." commanded Draco.

The man laughed, and stepped forward. Draco scrambled back, and moved to stand. But the stranger was too fast. He leapt forward and grasped Draco's collar, in a sick mimic of the way his uncle had found him only minutes before. "Unhand me, ruffian." said Draco.

The man laughed again, his stale breath hitting Draco's cheeks. 

"Don't think I will."

Draco started to yell, but the man covered his mouth, eyes growing cold. "None of that. None of that. I used to have a son, you know. Died in that war. Wasn't half as pretty as what you are though."

"Get off me!" Draco cried again, the sound was muffled.

The man gripped his wrists tightly. Draco struggled desperately, like a fish caught in a net. He wished that he could reach the pistol, which was tucked into his trousers. He had almost given up, when there came a loud, resounding crash, and the man slumped forward in a dead weight. Draco looked up, and saw fierce green eyes looking awkwardly between the man and a frying pan gripped in his left hand. The boy muttered something like a curse word, before looking up at Draco. 

"Thank you, kind sir." said Draco, bowing. "I shall not forget this service."

"Err, right." said the boy, looking around the clearing as though another attacker might jump out at any moment. 

Draco stepped forward to shake his hand, but the boy frowned, and stepped back. He might've said something like 'be careful', before he turned hastily and dashed away into the scrub. Draco dived after him, pushing past stray branches and wild scrub, but it was no use. He'd lost his saviour, and in the process, himself. He had no idea which direction he ought to run in. Draco slumped to the ground, carefully staying out of sight between a large tree trunk and a rock formation. It was so, so cold. He might even have drifted off, because the next thing he was aware of was once again, a hand gripping his shoulder.

“Where have you been?” a deep voice hissed.

Draco looked up.

“Snape,” recognised Draco with some fear.

Severus Snape was one of his fathers most trusted advisors, but he no longer knew who to trust. “Stay back,” he said, trying very hard to sound staunch from the ground. He failed terribly, throat drying up half way through the statement. He’d never felt so hopeless, he wanted to cry and rage. He pointed the gun.

“Put that down, you foolish boy.” snapped Snape, he was dressed entirely unlike Draco had ever seen him, covered top to bottom in common workman clothes, instead of the black military fur cloaks that he had favoured in the past.

Draco held the pistol up, and pointed it at Snape’s chest. “If you hurt me,” he said, “Or if I find out you’ve hurt my family… I’ll, I’ll… kill you.”

Snape rolled his eyes, and plucked the gun easily from Draco’s trembling hands.

“Come, we have much to do, and very little time. No one knows of these arrangements. Just myself, your father, and a select handful of discreet associates. Draco, you must assume a new identity. If you want to live, if you have any desire to survive the next few years, you must become someone else entirely, at least until we can smuggle you across the borders, and into France.”

Relieved not to be in charge of himself anymore, Draco nodded. Snape was his fathers most trusted advisor after all, and there must have been at least one person in the palace whose loyalty’s had not expired the moment Lucius showed one sign of weakness. Draco nodded, and took the extended hand.

Snape provided him a large, hooded cloak. They hurried through the grounds until they reached a small, gamekeepers cottage that Draco couldn’t remember ever having heard about. “Where are we?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

“Quiet. Don’t talk.” said Snape.

He knocked oddly on the door, a funny sequence that Draco presumed to be code. The door opened. Snape pushed him through, before following and closing the door quickly behind.

“Ahh, Snape.” came a deep, and rumbling voice. “You’ve brought the tyke then, ave you?”

“Correct.”

“All’s well, then. Madame Maxime has been on the look out for a young lad who can cook and clean about the place, someone a bit older than the others, to keep em in line.”

“I’ve just the orphan for the job,” said Snape. “He’ll be needing proper orphan clothes.”

“In the back.” said the large man.

“I’m not an orphan.” said Draco loudly.

Snape whirled on him. “Your name is David Markova. You are most certainly an orphan. You’ve not been within one hundred metres of the palace. You hate those filthy, pig royals. You survive.” replied Snape, his voice was fierce and brooked no argument. “Draco, you must obey me. I swore to your parents that I would protect your life if ever the imperial regime became compromised and your position as heir became uncertain. You must understand, that if they find you, they will kill you. Your very existence is a threat to their ideology.”

Snape took a deep breath. “Go in to the back room, and get dressed. There will be some workman’s dye on the sink, wash your hair with it. When you are done, return here, we shall wait until dusk, at which point Hagrid shall escort you to a safe place, where you will work briefly for your board, and wait for me to collect you in two weeks time.”

Draco nodded, and did so, stepping into the back room and closing the door. He looked around, the back room, was, primarily a bathroom, with a drop toilet and a sink. A cracked mirror leaned crookedly against the wall, a pile of dirty clothes sat folded in the corner. He stripped down, and put them on. The clothes were roughly hewn, far colder and more threadbare than anything he had ever worn before. The small apple cap was slightly too big, and had a hole near the ear. He sat it aside for the moment, putting his head under the tap and wetting his hair. The dye was crude, and stung his scalp as he rubbed it in. When he was done, he turned the tap off, and dried his hair with his old shirt.

He peered at himself though the cracked mirror, and nearly cried out with shock. His face was distorted, broken and sad amidst the shattered glass. His eyes were pale and red rimmed, they seemed to be full of ghosts. Worse, was his hair. All his life he had loved his hair, it was his most prized asset, a vanity that even his Aunt Andromeda had indulged, petting it gently, admiring the silky texture of the white gold strands. No more, it sat roughly atop his head, greasier than a poor mans fish and chips, and black as pitch. Draco did not look like a Malfoy, he did not look like anyone. The clothes, and the grime, he was sure, would affirm his anonymity. No one would recognise him.

He considered himself for a moment. Looked awkwardly at the pile of his clothes. The french medallion Andromeda had given him years ago gleamed at the breast of his tunic. Hurriedly, he unfastened it, and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. This would be his one act of rebellion. A good luck charm, of sorts.

He left the bathroom a new man. His old clothes lay folded behind him, and the door shut on Draco Malfoy, who ceased, in that moment, to exist. The man who came to greet Snape with a strength that no one could have predicted, was David Markova, orphan.

They waited several hours, the sky outside darkened considerably.

“It’s time,” said Snape, looking out through the window at the moon.

“Hmm, seems to me I’d better be visitin’ old Maxime, got a lot to discuss wiv her, and I know she’d make good use of some of these supplies… David, you’d make a handy delivery boy, wouldn’t yer?

“Yes,” said Draco sullenly.

“Best be off then, might see you round the local sometime, eh Snape?”

“You can be assured of it.” replied Snape sternly. “Now go, the night is on your side.”

Draco and Hagrid made their way through the trees, dragging a large sled packed with basic material goods, ragged clothes, some bed linen, and a large sack of half-rotted vegetables. The likes of which the palace cook would have thrown for the dogs.

“Ow old are you, David?” Hagrid asked sometime later.

“Thirteen,” replied Draco proudly, practically a man.

“Hmm,” said Hagrid.

The walk went on in silence. Soon, they left the woods entirely, and came nearer to the city. It was very cold, and Draco shivered miserably through the worn clothing. His feet, fingers and nose all felt as though they might fall off at any time. He looked suspiciously down at the thick layer of snow and wondered if he was about to get frost bite.

“I’m cold,” he told Hagrid.

“Well, so is everyone else I’d wager,” replied Hagrid.

“But… I’m cold!” Draco exclaimed. “Whatever are we to do?”

“Think about sunshine and hot cocoa, I heard that works a treat. Come on boy, put your back into it.”

Hagrid picked a heavy sack of potatoes from the cart and flung them in Draco’s direction. “You hold onto these, young un. Good steady work is good for the frost too.”

“I can’t,” whined Draco. “How much further?” 

Hagrid chuckled, and kept on. In then end, they passed the city by, and took a dirt exit back into a thatch of woods. Much to Draco’s chagrin, carrying the heavy bag had warmed him up a little. Steadily, they made their way down the track. A large, ominous building loomed up ahead, in the darkness, Draco could only just make out a wrought iron gate and stone walls.

“Here it is,” said Hagrid, and Draco could visibly see him exhale. “Yer new home. Madame Maxime’s Orphanage.”

“Oh, spiffing,” said Draco. He dropped the vegetables carelessly and rubbed his fingers together for some warmth.

“Now now, lad,” said Hagrid. “Careful with the goods.”

Draco sneered, and picked them up again pointedly. Hagrid rung a large bell that stuck out from the gate. They waited a few more minutes, before the doors creaked open, and the small orange globe of a lantern began to bob toward them. As it came closer, Draco noted that it came closer with dogs. Large beasts, with long snouts and teeth. One of them growled, low and menacing.

“Maxime,” greeted Hagrid.

“Ah, ma cherie!” replied the woman. “And you have brought the supplies.” 

“Yes.”

“What of the boy?”

“Him too.”

“Magnifique, I shall open the gates. Welcome, young man. Welcome.”

“No. Don’t open the gates,” cried Draco. “Those dogs are going to attack me.” 

Maxime laughed. “They will do no such thing, they are only excited.”

She opened the gates. And true to her words, the dogs did little but sit and stare, with unnatural black eyes that glowed under the moonlight. They unsettled Draco so immensely, that he lost his footing, one of his boots caught awkwardly on the back of Hagrid’s sled, and he fell backwards. For one endless moment, Maxime and Hagrid watched as the boy fell, pale face lined with panic and humiliation. Then, it was over. His skull hit the hard iron gate with a sickening crack, and in the dark of the Russian night, Draco Malfoy fell unconscious in the snow.

“Shit,” said Hagrid, who did not usually curse. “We’ve killed the bugger.”

“Ee eez not dead,” replied Maxime. “Look, see ow ee breathes? Put eem onto your sled, quickly. We shall take eem inside.”

Hagrid carefully lifted the boy up into his arms, and lay him down amidst the rags and vegetables. A large puddle of blood stained the snow where the head wound had ran into the ground, crimson on white.

 

It is difficult to describe what happened next, all that is known is that Hagrid and Maxime took the boy inside, laid him upon the kitchen bench, and utilised their limited knowledge of medicine to dress and clean the boys’ wound. It wasn’t life threatening, they decided. Nevertheless, it was with some trepidation that they watched him wake, an hour later, to a small sachet of smelling salt held beneath his nostrils by Maxime.

“Hello,” he said, cautiously.

“Thank the merciful gods, little prince.” said Maxime in relief. “Fate smiles on us tonight! Draco Malfoy azz not been killed after all.”

Little did they know, that it was a new boy, who blinked bleary-eyed up at them. He spoke in unsure tones. “Who is Draco Malfoy?” he said. “My name is David, David Markova.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
**— PART TWO —**

_**BACK TO WHO I WAS** _

 

  
**1922 : Madame Maxime’s Orphanage : Draco is Leaving**

  
_It has been five years since the February Revolt. The rebels that first charged the city, have been replaced by a democratic government. Tom Riddle, or, Lord Voldemort, has not been seen since he fled a battle five years ago with a deadly wound. His legacy lives on. The curse he uttered to the late Tsarovich has come true; Imperial Russia no longer exists. The Malfoy line ended when Lucius Malfoy and his wife were taken to the wilds of Siberia, and shot to death by a firing squad in a cellar some months later. The people have never recovered their bodies. Most assume that their son, Draco Malfoy, died sometime in between. Though lately, there have been whispers. The Grand Duchess Andromeda Lyra Pollux Tonks nee Black has issued a reward of one million euros to the man or woman who can reunite her with her beloved nephew. Harry Potter, a down on his luck con with his eye on the prize, sees this as the perfect opportunity, now, if only he could find himself a lost prince..._

David had turned eighteen months ago. It was past time for him to leave. Maxime did not know what to do. Hagrid's friend had never come to collect the boy, and David had never regained his memory anyhow. After much consideration, she had applied some of the steadfast pragmatism that she had always been renowned for in the orphanage. It would do no one any good to remind the boy of who he was. She was sure that there were still those who would not hesitate to kill him, the way they had killed his parents. He would be much happier if he remained ignorant. She had done her best for him, had a job lined up with the fishers market, even. Maybe one day, he would marry a girl, settle down, and live a normal life as the young man he was now, and not the lost prince he had been. 

"I'm going to miss you, ma'am." said David.

To Maxime, he looked hopelessly grown up; straight-backed, tall, and prepared. The other children looked down from the windows, waving their hands and caps in farewell. David had always been a favourite in the house, the other children had taken a long time to warm up to him, Maxime supposed they sensed that he was different in some way, but when they had come to respect him, their friendship had been certain.

"Put your hat on, darling." said Maxime. 

David complied, pulling his apple cap jauntily down over his hair. The dye had grown out years ago. At first, Maxime had been worried that someone would discover him. But no one had ever noticed the orphan with the white gold Malfoy locks. He wore a hat out of doors, as was the custom, and the other children had always been too young to do much about anything. 

"I dare say, I'm allowed to smoke now." said David smugly. 

More than once, she had caught him helping himself to one of her cigars, as though he owned them himself. She supposed that sort of natural entitlement never left you. You could take the boy out of the palace, but you could never quite take the palace out of the boy. 

"I dare say," Maxime replied, pulling a cigarette from the inside of her strict grey gown. 

David smiled at her, and plucked it from her fingers. "Thanks, ma'am." he said. "I'll be off then."

"Only to the feeshers market," said Maxime. "We'll see each other often still, no?"

David got a mysterious look about his face. "We will see each other again, that I know for certain."

"Well," said Maxime, who could feel herself growing more emotional than she really wanted to in front of the other children, "Off with you then, David Markova. Be safe, and be happy. To the future, and only the future."

David grinned, smiled at the other children, and stepped through the wrought iron gates of the orphanage for perhaps the last time. 

God be with him, thought Maxime to herself, and God forgive me, for never telling him the truth. 

_Later..._

David Markova was having a difficult time of it. He had reached a cross-roads, both physically, and metaphorically. On one side of the road, was a sign that would no doubt take him directly to the fishers market where he would spend the rest of his life gutting stock and blocking his nose from the stench. On the other side, was Saint Petersburg, and maybe his first actual chance to find something out about where he was from. Maxime had always been tight lipped about it, insisting that he had been dropped at her door in the middle of the night with a head wound and not much else. But later, David had found something, a medallion, tucked away inside his pocket. Somehow, he knew that it was important, and somehow, he knew that it had something to do with France. He'd spent years daydreaming about what it all could add up to, perhaps his family had perished on French soil in the war? Perhaps they had been aristocrats fleeing the revolt? Or maybe, he was just a thief, and his parents were living somewhere as near as the town? He had so many questions, but none of them would ever be answered if he went to work in the fishers market.

"What am I to do?" David said out loud, sitting down carelessly on a small formation of rocks. Before he had left, he'd snuck into Maxime's office and nicked a packet of cigarette's, he pulled the small box out from inside his coat, and lit one. It dangled limply from his ole lips, but as he inhaled the nicotine, his head cleared. 

David rubbed his hands together for warmth. He simply couldn't abide the cold, and his patched fingerless gloves only protected him from the elements so well.

David kicked his beaten old trunk. "If there was a God," he proclaimed cynically. "He would send me a sign-OW!"

David looked down at his leg in shock. A small black cat, arrived from nowhere, had sunk it's sharp claws into his leg, straight through the hardy material of his trousers, and into his flesh.

"Bugger off," said David crossly, he wasn't a cat person, he liked big dogs, like Maxime's hounds.

The cat ignored him. David shook his leg for a moment, until the cat was forced to let go. It fell into the snow and was immediately covered. Poking it's soot black head up, it scowled at him heartily, before sticking it's nose and tail in the air and walking off down the road to Saint Petersburg. 

Draco watched it go in amusement. Then he coloured, looked up at the sign, and thought with incredulity that it couldn't be.

"I can take a hint," said David, brushing the snow off his leather shoes, he dropped his cigarette into the snow and crushed it under his heel.

David picked up his second-hand bags and followed the cat quickly. If he had assessed the sign correctly, it was his destiny to find where he had once belonged. A sense of family had always been important to him, and he had never known why. He swore to himself, that he would find out. As he strolled jauntily down the white snow capped road, he felt, for the first time in a long time, a sense of purpose. The landscape was beautiful, the snow vast and pure, today, he started a journey.

When he and the cat reached the city, David headed straight for the train station. He was determined that he would buy a ticket for Paris, likely, the price of the ticket would chew through the entirety of the small fund Maxime had provided, but he had to know.

He was in for a rude awakening. 

"Where are your papers?" asked the ticket booth operator. 

"Papers?" asked David. "What papers?"

"You know," said the operator helpfully. "Your papers. Them what everybody's got. Tell us who y'are, where you're from and all that rot."

"But I don't know." exclaimed David. "That's what I'm on my way to find out."

"No papers, no ticket. Sorry." said the operator, not looking very apologetic at all. 

"Well I never." said David regally. "Of all the inconceivable, I'd like to speak with your manager, in fact, I demand that you take me to him. Or better yet, you bring him to me."

The operator looked down at him through the bars of the booth, took in the state of his dress, and laughed. "Fuck off," he said. "There's nothing for you here. And it's closing time anyhow."

The operator drew down a curtain sharply, and David was left fuming. What a complete fraud. Since when had ticket operators been so incompetent? David didn't remember having ever taken a train before, but he was sure that if he had, the service had been much more obliging.

David, at a complete loss as to what he should do, closed his eyes and indulged a brief moment of self-pity. A hand tapped on his shoulder. 

"Go see Potter," came the hoarse voice of an elderly woman. "He can help you, for the right price."

"Potter?" David asked, "What Potter?"

The old woman, whose eyes looked like currants, grinned at him with a set of rotted teeth. "Potter is a someone that we all ought to know."

Draco pursed his lips impatiently. "He can help me get tickets?"

"Yes. And more."

"Where can I find him?"

"The old winter palace, but you didn't hear it from me."

She wandered off, cackling madly, and David was left with the lasting impression that he had just encountered a real life hag. The cat, which for some reason, had not yet abandoned him to his fate, mewled keenly, and batted at his leg. 

"What is it?" he asked, cursing his own superstition. 

Only crazy people spoke to cats, he was sure of it.

The cat turned tail again, and walked out of the train station. David followed after it, holding his hat down against the wind and trying not to drop his trunk. The cat trotted through the streets confidently, and David was forced to weave his way between the workers on their way home rudely. They looked incredibly dirty, but that was ordinary. Post-war Russia was a cruel and barren place. All of the men that had managed to find work, had found it endorsing the industrial revolution and other fat cat companies that supported various war machines and schemes of profiteering. 

Roads were dotted with famine victims, surviving somehow, in small makeshift hovels and with the kindness of strangers. David had been very lucky to be taken in by Maxime. He had always known this theoretically, but never had it been so apparent or plain to see. 

The men now returning to their homes were a motley bunch. The majority of them were evidently ex-soldiers, home from the war with scarified faces and wounds that would never heal. The grotesquerie of their features frightened David, and he tried not to look too closely at anyone he walked by, lest they think he was staring.

The cat eventually led him to the outskirts of town, the streets were dirtier, and more occupied. Homeless littered the alleys, and looked up at him with wide dead eyes as he passed them by. Their faces were sunken, and their teeth were black. The majority of them had probably worked the fields before the war.

David had read in a newspaper that the majority of farm workers had fled to the city as the food had disappeared. Various armies had found the vast agricultural plains of Russia defenceless, and had suffered no moral qualms in quickly seizing grain from the peasants that inhabited them. Now, as men, women, and children flocked to the cities in their thousands with nothing but prayers for sustenance, the influenza had struck. David heard a rattling cough issue from someone that appeared to be nothing more than a breathing skeleton. Hurriedly, he flicked a coin in that vague direction, and walked away. He had been aware of course, that an epidemic had hit the city, but the orphanage had always been separated by a thick woodland, and seeing so many human beings impoverished and ill was shocking to him. He wondered for a moment, how Russia's leaders had allowed the state to reach such a vile and cruel condition. 

David looked around, and realised that he had wandered into the society district. The streets were girt by noble houses, and he knew that noble people had once filled them. Now, several of the once elegant buildings had fallen into disrepute, or been vandalised. The majority of them seemed to bear signs of having been raided by looters. David shivered, ghosts roamed these streets, he was sure of it.

Up ahead, stood the old Malfoy palace. Draco looked upon it in awe. He'd seen it once before, in a snow globe. Seeing it in reality was somewhat different, it reminded David of a dream he had had once. The cat ran towards it's gates. 

"Cat!" hissed David. "No, we can't go in there." 

He would wait for this Potter to come out. He would be safer, that way. The palace looked as though it had been ravaged by criminals. The gates were evidently chained, and several of the entrances had been boarded up haphazardly with old planks of wood. David got the immediate sense that he should not enter this building. It wasn't just the ghosts, or the barricades, he mused; there could be any number of disreputable people hiding away in there; criminals, like the looters, or worse.

The cat crawled through a gap fearlessly, David deliberated, before following. 

Inside, the palace was even less decorous than David had previously presumed. The walls were grimy, gilt frames and floral papers had been irreparably damaged by dust and by vandals who'd gotten it into their heads that their leaders would appreciate having Leninist testimonies writ, in black printers paint, throughout the hallowed halls of their enemies home.

David walked slowly, every step he took felt predetermined, as though he had been destined, since birth, to take that step. As though he had taken the steps before. He was encompassed suddenly by an overwhelming sense of expectation. 

Every room he entered seemed full of haunted things, a broken vase, a piano-forte, a ripped curtain. He wondered if children in the palace had ever hidden behind it, he knew he would have, if he had grown up here.

Throughout the halls, crystal chandeliers were covered wholly by cobwebs and dust, David got the distinct feeling that they all ought to be shining, glinting like gold in the mid-day sun. He rounded a corner expecting to see a painting, but was met by an empty wall. A feeling of intense discomfort snaked it's way through David's gut, he couldn't shake the idea that everything he saw here was wrong, or out of place, as though he were peering at the world through a warped magnifying glass that radically altered the viewers perception of the universe into a slightly lop-sided, or off kilter dimension. But that was ridiculous. What was it to him that some irrelevant palace was plagued by empty walls? And what was it to him, that the chandeliers did not gleam?

He came soon enough, to a ball room. The skirting had once been gilt, David could see that for looking, and the fashion of the room was entirely baroque. He dropped his trunk and wandered curiously into the centre of the room. There wasn't enough space for a large party, David surmised that the Malfoy's must have utilised it for small gatherings, amongst their relatives or very particular friends. He closed his eyes, and for a long moment, was caught up in an all-consuming vision; well dressed figures danced gracefully through the room, the women were dressed in frothy pastels, and the men, in crimson uniform with boots of the Lifeguard regiment of the Hussars. He saw a man and a woman, both with blonder hair than ever he'd seen, sitting still as statues at the head of the room, the man was smiling indulgently at the woman, she threw her head back in laughter. David's ears rung, he could almost hear them speaking. Like a fairy tale he had heard once, a long time ago.

"I am yours, you are mine, of that be sure. You are locked in my heart, the little key is lost and now you must stay there forever," said the woman.

"I love you my own darling as few persons only can love! I love you too deeply and too strongly for me to show it; it is such a sacred feeling, I don't want to let it out in words, that seem too meek, and poor, and vain." the man replied.

The woman turned slightly, and looked at David with shining eyes. "At last, united, bound for life, and when this life is ended, we meet again in the other world and remain together for eternity."

David was bewitched, he wanted to hear more, until the gaze of both the man and the woman become too penetrating and he had to look away. Movement broke the spell, and he was free. David shook his head to clear it, and walked quickly back to his trunk, shaken by the vision that had so vigorously besieged him. 

Leaning down to clasp the handle of the trunk, David saw the bottom of a picture frame, hidden by a thick, moth-eaten curtain. Curious, he pulled the curtain aside and nearly choked as a cloud of dust was sent up into the air. When his eyes and throat cleared, he looked up, and was struck dumb. The same man and woman from his vision stared out at him. Their pale faces and eyes were like ghosts, come to haunt him. A boy sat with them, sporting fine clothes and a proud expression. His features were light and angular. The artist had evidently taken great pains in capturing their image. David couldn't stop himself, he drank it all in thirstily. For reasons he could not fathom, the picture spoke to him.

 

 

**The East Wing : Harry Potter's Scheme**

_Harry Potter is a number of interesting things, all at once; in part, noble-blooded, and yet, vehemently against the separation of classes. An orphan, and yet, part of a large family. He is a lover of great jazz music, green-eyed, an orphan, and an unrepentant con. He strikes all those he meets as an affable sort of fellow, with little going on upstairs, and yet, is blessed with an innate sort of cleverness that has prevailed time and again. This, he calls his 'gut instinct'. Recently, his 'gut instinct' has informed him gently that one million euros is a considerable amount, and that if anybody is going to dupe a grand duchess into handing such a large fee out, why then, it ought to be him._

Harry Potter was reviewing a number of photographs and documents. His round glasses had slid partway down his narrow nose, and an ominous frown line intercepted his brows.The pictures that had inspired his consternation were a small collection of young blonde men, about his age, and all bearing some resemblance to the lost Malfoy prince. Harry had been living in the palace for about a year, or at least, since he had turned seventeen. The rooms under his care had improved considerably. They were as clean as ever, though quite a bit darker. Living out of the abandoned palace had been a strategic manoeuvre. He had wanted to embroil himself in the home of the Malfoy's to better understand them, and their son. It helped too, that Draco's portraits still decorated several of the walls. A convenience that allowed him to compare and contrast all of the 'lost princes' who came to him with a more discerning gaze.

Harry heard footsteps in the hall, and stood up quickly putting his back to the wall, but it was only Ron who burst through the door excitedly. 

Ronald Weasley had been his accomplice since his days in the kitchen. All of the Weasley's had worked there. Mrs Weasley was the head chef, and her army of sons did most everything else. Harry only worked in the kitchens because it had been the only job his godfather could find him after the death of his parents. 

Later, when the revolt had begun, he'd spotted an opportunity to help the family that had made him feel so welcome. Even as young as fourteen, he'd known a great deal about forging tickets, and so, the Weasley's had all made it to Paris safely, except for Ron, who had come back one year later for Harry. Ron had invited him to come stay with his family in Toulouse, but Harry had refused. Nevertheless, Ron had lived in Russia with Harry ever since, and it had been fun. Harry didn't think that there had ever been two boys who's had so many adventures together as he and Ron Weasley. 

"Where have you been?" Harry asked. 

"Lavender's," said Ron, grinning.

"Of course," replied Harry. "I've been going over the photographs..."

"And?" said Ron, throwing himself down on a chaise carelessly and shucking his leather shoes.

"They are all terrible. The photographs are terrible, and the auditions have been terrible. Did you know, that _a woman_ showed up to try out today? Where people get their ideas I will never know."

Ron snorted. "As though this whole scheme of yours isn't madness."  

"It's going to work," said Harry assuredly. "We'll be richer than kings, if only we can locate the right prince."

"Like a needle in a hay-stack," said Ron. "It's not just looks you know, there's a whole thing in their mannerisms, the way they talk, the way they move. That only comes from years of indoctrination."

"Well, we only have a few weeks. It'll have to do. And anyhow, you're an expert in fine manners, it'll work out."

"I think I'll buy a new house..." mused Ron. "Or a motor car. A great big red motor car."

"That's lairy," said Harry.

"That's style," said Ron. "I can see us now, cruising the streets of Paris or Milan, even New York, like proper dapper young gents, flappers in the back, and a few bottles of grog."

"Did you hear that?" asked Harry suddenly, cutting straight through Ron's amusement. It seemed to him as though a crash had sounded from the left side of the palace.

"Probably just looters again," said Ron.

"Do you have your pistol?" Harry asked. 

"Yes."

"Good, let's go check it out."

Ron sighed. "Another one of your gut feelings?"

"Something like that," said Harry. 

They wandered through the old hallways towards the noise, damaged Malfoy paintings from ages past glared down at them. Harry, who had always refused to feel like an intruder, especially when in the presence of someone who did not like him, ignored them, and walked on. There came another crash, Harry froze, and put an arm up to stop Ron from walking. 

"Shh," Harry mouthed silently.

He made a complicated series of motions with his hands, and Ron nodded solemnly in understanding. Slowly, they rounded the corner into the ballroom as though they owned the place.

Across the hall, a young man and a cat stood beneath one of the family portraits, Harry could see from the up tilt of his head that he was thinking. 

"Hey!" Harry shouted. "What are you doing?"

The man, startled, turned around to look at him, before picking up the cat and running away up the stairs. Harry sighed, and took chase. His shoes squeaked as he sprinted across the old dance hall floor. Soon, he had caught up to the man, and grabbed hold of the back of his coat collar. They pulled to an abrupt stop, and the man whirled around to face him. "Unhand me, ruffian." said the man.

Harry let go of him in astonishment, and stepped back. The man looked so much like the paintings. The resemblance was striking. He was dressed poorly, in a worn coat and trousers, but that did nothing to hide his charms. His face and posture were naturally aristocratic. Atop his head, was a perfect thatch of white gold hair. 

"Stop staring at me," ordered the man.

His narrow lips had curled and he was treating Harry to a scowl so deep and poisonous that he was forced to wonder how he hadn't dropped dead with it. Yes, thought Harry, he would do nicely. "What's your name?" 

The man paused. "David." he said. "David Markova. Why?"

"No reason. How old are you?"

David eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know where I could find someone by the name of Potter?"

"Hmm, I might... but first, how old?"

"Eighteen."

"Perfect." said Harry.

Discreetly, he peered between the portrait and David. The resemblance was certainly there, and uncanny. Both were possessed of the same austere features; a fine aristocratic bone structure, that Draco himself had no doubt inherited from his mother, and a firm pointed chin, similar, Harry mused, to that of the late Tsar. David was a natural blessing, Harry counted his lucky stars. 

"That's a bloody understatement," said Ron, who had caught up, and was assessing David with wide eyes.

"Potter?" snapped David.

"At your service," said Harry extending a hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Markova."

"You're Potter?" said David, disbelief writ in every feature, he hesitated before shaking the outstretched hand briefly. 

"Harry Potter," he affirmed. "At your service. How can I help?"

"Papers," said David. "And a ticket to Paris, please."

Harry and Ron exchanged a meaningful gaze.

"You want to go to Paris?"

"Well, yes..."

"Your family won't miss you?" Harry asked, he was more worried that someone might start digging, and uncover his con, but it never did hurt to check.

There had been another scheme, years ago, that had gotten messy when they'd brought in an amateur, the whole con had gone balls-up when his wife began to search for him. Harry still hadn't quite recovered his equilibrium over the whole thing. It had taught him caution, that was certain, he was far less reckless now than he had been then, and Ron's influence had meant that their venture's were always carefully planned. 

"Well, it's strange," said David. "But I actually don't have a family, I don't know who they are, or were. That's why I want to go to Paris."

Harry considered this. "You don't know?"

"I was dropped at an orphanage in 1917, I have very few memories of my past. It's all a blank."

Harry grinned. "We'd be delighted to help. Oddly enough, we're travelling to Paris ourselves. We've got three tickets."

"That's fantastic," said David, gripping his trunk so excitedly his knuckles had turned white. "When do we depart."

"Well, that depends on you. The third ticket is for the lost tsarovich, Draco Malfoy. We intend to reunite him with his aunt, the grand duchess Andromeda Tonks."

"Oh," said David, trying not to sound disappointed. 

"You do look a lot like him," said Harry, "it was the first thing I noticed about you."

Ron nodded, and came to stand by David. "Same face, same physical type, and of course, that bloody unmissable Malfoy hair."

David laughed disbelievingly. "You two are both mad, you can't honestly be suggesting that _I_ could be the lost prince... could you?"

Harry folded his arms. "I have seen thousands of young men, all over the country, and not one of them bears even close to the same resemblance to Draco as you do."

David scoffed. But Harry was determined, he gripped David's arm and dragged him around a corner into a small alcove. "Just look at this picture, don't you think there could be a chance?"

David looked. The portrait hung on the wall was a picture of the tsarovich on his own. He had to admit, however unwillingly, that it was like looking in a mirror at his younger self. The very same features Harry had noticed when he first laid eyes upon David's face, now caught David's own attention. Every young man in Russia might have liked to believe they were a lost prince, and David was not exempt, sleeping on a damp mattress and struggling for food always encouraged dreams of the sort. But could he take the gamble? 

"You don't know what happened to you," said Ron.

"And no one knows what happened to him." added Harry. "Just think about it."

David stared up at the painting.

Harry looked at his fob-watch, and grew impatient. "Really wish we could help, but the third ticket is for him. Ron, are you coming?"

Ron gestured wildly while David wasn't looking. Harry shook his head, and nearly had to drag Ron away, "We almost had him," Ron muttered. "I'm telling you, Just one more moment and we would have been able to wrap him in a bow for the old duch and nicked off with the rewards lickety split."

"We still can," Harry replied under his breath. "Just you wait. My gut says he's the one."

Ron grumbled. "You and your ruddy gut. I bloody hope you're right. Got my heart set on that motor car now."

"Don't worry about it," said Harry, slowing his pace and affecting an air of cool, "It's all going accordingly to plan. Ready? Three, two, one-"

"WAIT!" David shouted across the ballroom. "Stop!"

Harry heard footsteps running after them, he smirked at Ron, who grinned delightedly. 

"Yes? What is it?" Harry asked, when David caught up. 

"I think... I mean, certainly, the possibility is worth exploring?"

"Step into our office," said Ron, obligingly. "We've quite a lot to discuss."

David nodded, and followed Ron through a door that would take them to the east wing, Harry, left alone with the cat, smirked, before following after them with a satisfied spring in his step.

None of them saw the rat.  

 

**Interlude : A Rat's Journey**

_He goes by many names, Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, Magic Man, The Immortal. Folk tales and rumour have spread the message of his greatness far and wide. Serfs as far as the east coast bless him, and his power. It has been years since he was seen alive, and yet the memory of him lives on, in myth and in words whispered. A figure larger than life, and more powerful than death. Absence has not sullied his reputation, and alone in the Malfoy palace, a rat keeps his watch..._

Wormtail had been a coward for as long as he could remember. It had been almost a decade since his master had performed the ritual ad changed him, and yet since then, he hadn't grown. It was hard, he supposed to take the measure of a man who had so long been trapped inside the body of a rat. Quickly, quickly. He scurried through the walls, over secret passage ways and servants quarters, he knew the place better than anyone. The reliquary attached to his neck rattled against the cobblestones as he crawled through the small paths, paths paved by animals and unknown to man. Soon enough, he reached the east wing. 

"It seems cruel," said a muffled voice through the roof, "I don't want to lie to anyone, I want to find my family, and maybe a home."

There came what Wormtail recognised as a distinctly uncomfortable pause. 

"You don't have to lie," the Potter boy intoned with charm. "After all, this woman is in exactly the same position as you are, all she wants is to find someone she belongs with. Wouldn't it be amazing, for you both to discover your dreams in each other? An aunt reunited at last, with her lost nephew."

"It seems like madness," said the boy, the one who had made the reliquary hum. He laughed disbelievingly. "I mean, I can't possibly be the lost prince."

"But you will never know for sure," said Potter, "Unless you come with us. Be brave. Come to Paris, see if you might find the one who gave you that medallion."

Wormtail crawled forward, looked down at them from a gap in the skirting. Potter and his accomplice were stood behind a large, mahogany desk, covered with papers. The boy was sat primly on a mauve chaise across from them. His legs were crossed and he was holding a weather beaten trunk tightly, as though he might like to run away at any second. A black cat was curled up on his lap, Wormtail made eye contact with it, and scuttled back hurriedly, away from the penetrating stare of the predator. He missed a snippet of the conversation in his fear. When he returned, slowly. All three men were standing. 

"Say it," said Potter, holding a train ticket between his thumb and forefinger. "Say it, and see how it feels." 

The boy did not reply, instead, he fidgeted somewhat awkwardly and stared at the floor. Wormtail was pleased, this boy was evidently not a prince, his aspect and his manner weren't even half what should be expected from a young man of good fortune.

Potter waved the ticket around temptingly, with the air of one who didn't necessarily care either way. The boys eyes tracked it's progress, and Potter smiled to himself before sighing loudly, and saying, "Oh well, we've got a few other prospects lined up, very sorry for wasting your time."

The blonde boy looked up, startled. His grey eyes were wide and desperate.

Potter shrugged.

The boy, who Wormtail could see physically grow more determined, took a deep breathe, stood a little straighter, and then said with great gusto and pomp, "My name is Draco Malfoy, the lost tsarovich of Imperial Russia. I am travelling with my companions into Paris to meet with my aunt, the grand duchess Andromeda Tonks."

Time slowed to a halt. The reliquary glowed bright absinthe green, and Wormtail was lost to a world of darkness and shadow. He tried to scream, but all that could escape from his snout was a terrified squeak. He knew then, with fear and with certainty, that he was about to come face to face with his old master. 

 

**A Bargain Is Struck : A Journey Begins**

_It is 1922, there are approximately 70,000 Russian expatriates living in Paris. Three more won't make the slightest difference, not when the number is predicted to double in the next five years alone. Work permits and visas are acquired quickly, and not often checked. Identity fraud is rife, and all over Europe, people take advantage of their survival. France, decimated by war, is fast becoming the cultural epicentre of the world. Reconstruction has allowed people to hope again, industry and art flourishes. Talented bohemians swarm the city; a generation of black Americans [like Josephine Baker] have fled their homes to perform where they will be respected, Jazz is so popular that groups travel all the way from New York and Chicago to play, and writers like Ernest Hemingway and Gertrude Stein have come to the city to find inspiration. It seems as though, from the ashes, a new France has emerged, one that will pave the way for the fruition of wondrous creativity and a diversified cultural heritage. The war, designed to strengthen barriers between states, has instead, broken them down, and every capitol city in Europe is flooded with foreigners._

David sat down carefully, and rested his head against the window. Outside, passengers were still boarding, and guards marched along the platform, checking luggage and visas. David found himself inordinately grateful that Harry had known how to organise his papers, otherwise, he doubted that he would have been able to muster the street smarts required to get them himself. 

They had booked a small compartment, one that usually would seat around six. David crossed an ankle over his knee. The leather on his boot was peeling, which irritated him slightly. He shook himself. It would do no good to worry about the state of his clothes when there where people all across Europe who had lost everything. He'd stolen a newspaper that a man on the platform had left on top of a bin, and what he read in the political pages had greatly disturbed him. Though people had put their backs into reconstruction, there were still so many who bore grudges against the Germans, or whoever they thought had wronged them the most. If David had been asked to put his finger on the pulse of the continent, he would have called it erratic. 

The door opened, David sat up straight, but it was just Harry with the bags and David's trunk.

"Isn't there room in the luggage carriage?" David asked. 

"Something like that," Harry replied, panting slightly. "What the hell did you put in here? My arm is about to fall off, we're only going to Paris you know, not Australia." he said as he lifted the trunk up into one of the overhead carriers. 

"Not so very much as all that," snapped David. "Perhaps your musculature is under-developed. Ooh, come here, my darling."

"Oh, sweetheart," said Harry, running a hand through his hair and grinning roguishly. "I hadn't realised we were that close."

"I was talking to the cat," said David coldly. "You can  _trakhat'sya_ yourself."

Harry let his mouth drop into a shocked 'o'. "Did they teach you that in the orphanage? You may want to wash your mouth out before we meet the grand duchess."

"Pah!" exhaled David, he picked up his stupid cat, and left the stupid compartment. Some people were simply too frustrating to tolerate. 

He wandered down the length of the train, it felt so much like a new beginning that a few nervous butterflies began to dance in his stomach. On his way down the hall, he passed Ron, who gave him a smile and a pastry. Chewing crossly, David leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. The cat mewled in his arms, begging for attention. He stroked her carefully and listened to the train as the drivers started it up. People were chattering incessantly, but they weren't louder than the whistle or the engine, and soon enough, they were off, off to Paris, and maybe, off to find David's family. 

Eventually, he strolled back down to the compartment, he opened the door to find Harry and Ron exchanging displeased whispers and waving some papers about. He got the distinct impression that something was very wrong.

"Problem, boys?"

"No problem," said Harry.

"No worries," added Ron.

David eyed them both as pointedly as he could, which was pointedly indeed, "There wouldn't happen to be anything wrong with our papers now, would there?"

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and pursed his lips. "Everything is going accordingly to plan,"

"Doesn't necessarily answer the question though, does it?" David replied, raising his eyebrows at Ron.

Ron grinned. "He's got you there, mate."

Harry shifted. "Look, David. Can I call you David?" he went on, "Sometimes, there are errors, in the system, particularly during times of stress, Ron and I were just thinking, that in order to, err, prevent any inconveniences, it might be best that we, err, change carriages."

"Change carriages?" David asked. "Why?"

"Well, the view, for one thing, is pretty shoddy in here, I must say. We paid premium price for these tickets, and here we are, stuck on the left side of the train. If we were on the right, there would be mountains, guaranteed."

"Very convincing," said Ron. 

"Do shut up."

"If we get in any trouble," David threatened. "I shall tell the authorities that I am your hostage, and had nothing to do with whatever corrupt goings on you two are conducting."

"If we get in any trouble," said Harry, accepting the challenge. "I'll put the handcuffs on myself."

"Let's go?" said Ron.

"Let's go." Harry agreed. 

Ron grabbed the bags, and Harry pulled David's trunk down from the overhead shelf. David decided Harry's arms, much like the rest of him, were very annoying. Lean, and knobby about the wrists. David was positive that only highly irritating people could have handsome looking arms during times of great stress. 

 

"Do you know," said David, a few moments later, "When you said that you had a problem with the view, I didn't think you meant that we shouldn't have one at all."

"Nothing wrong with where we are," said Harry, "It's very spacious."

"Yes," agreed David. "It's the luggage carriage."

"There's real room to spread out."

"And no windows."

Ron laughed, and repeated, "He's got you there, mate."

 

David had slept for a few hours, before waking up when the carriage had shaken over a bump in the track. Since then, he and Ron had whiled away the time playing cards over a barrel while Harry sat at the other end of the carriage, reviewing their papers. He had attached a complex eye-piece to the left lens of his glasses, and was peering closely at an official document. His green eyes were magnified through the glass, and for the first time, David appreciated how bright and focused they were. Several strange metal instruments and a collection of ink wells lay spread out in front of him, his dark brows had drawn together in concentration. Not traditionally handsome, was Harry, to be sure, but the thin, angular face, almost fierce with focus, certainly seemed attractive enough. 

"Snap," said Ron.

"Oh, you cheated." said David.

"No, I paid attention." Ron corrected. "If you hadn't been off with the fairies you might've had a shot."

"The fairies!" David exclaimed. "You _must_ be mad."

They played another few rounds, and then graduated to black jack. The clickety-clack of the wheels against the track became a comforting background noise, until Harry stood up suddenly, threw his tools and documents into a brief case, and put his ear to the door. "Someone's out there," he said. "I think it might be a guard."

"They're going to catch us out," whispered Ron, who immediately sprung into action, gathering their luggage as silently as he could.

"We're near a town," said Harry. "If we can stay on here for another ten minutes, then we can jump and find lodgings there."

"Jump?" David asked. 

"No worries, man," Ron said to him quietly. "We've tried it loads of times, and not ever done permanent damage."

"Impermanent damage though?"

Ron shrugged. 

"Fools," David hissed. 

A hand covered his mouth, Harry's. There was a large metallic clunk from outside, like a boots landing on the step. 

From the corner of his eye, David watched as Ron slowly went to star behind the door. Harry gestured towards a coat rack, filled to bursting with large fur jackets and fine cloaks. Ever so carefully, they tucked themselves behind the clothes. David prayed that whoever was about to come in, didn't think to wonder about their shoes poking slightly out at the bottom. 

"Don't worry," Harry whispered in his ear. "It will be alright."

"I know that," David hissed.

Harry chuckled quietly, and then the door opened. 

Two guards entered the carriage, and began to look around. David held his breath. 

"It seems empty to me," said the older guard.

David could just make them out through the small gaps near the coat hanger railing.

"We have to check it thoroughly," replied the younger. "Regulations state so explicitly."

"Pah, regulations. You'll grow out of that, Herge. _Der'mo_ , it's cold as the grave"

They came closer, and their voices became easier to make out. "You shouldn't be paid in der'mo, Paznikov. You're a lazy swine, sir."

"Ahh, but I deserve my cabbages, just like the rest of you. Old Paznikov may be an idle relic, but he knows his tricks, aha!"

Harry had just enough time to push David out of the way before a large cane was swung heavily through the coats. 

"Bastard!" Harry shouted, before grabbing onto the other end. 

The older man swung it around and Harry, who was rather lighter that him, was flung into the wall on the other side of the carriage. 

"Pig fuckers," said the old man. "Swindlers! What do we do to stow-aways, Herge?"

Herge grinned, and tipped his cap. "We take them into custody, sir. And we present them to the police when we arrive at the next station. That's what regulations say, sir."

Paznikov paused, and considered his companion with a beleaguered expression. "What _else_ do we do to stow-aways, Herge?"

David, sensing an opportunity, scrambled away from the two of them and over to Harry. 

"Hey!" shouted Paznikov. "Stop that!"

"Are you alright?" David whispered, there was a small wound at Harry's temple where his head had hit the shelf. 

Harry smiled woozily. "If we get out of this, remind me never to forge my visa again."

"When, not if," David corrected. 

Paznikov, feeling ignored, took a moment to swing his cane viciously into Harry's side. 

"Stop it!" David shouted.

Harry groaned loudly upon impact. That was going to leave a bruise.

"Are you dying?" David asked.

"You wish." muttered Harry.

Paznikov lifted his arm to swing again. Harry coughed, and said loudly, "Any fucking time now, Ron."

"So impatient," came a familiar voice, David grinned.

"Ron?" said Herge. "Who is Ron?"

Herge did not have to wonder for very long. Because sooner than he might have expected, he fell to the ground. Seconds later, Paznikov did the same. Ron stood behind them, gripping a fry pan. 

"Took your time," Harry groaned. 

"Couldn't help myself," Ron replied. "Sometimes I just feel like you deserve it."

"Bastard," said Harry, with some dudgeon.

"Come on, then." said Ron, helping him up. "I'd wager this is our stop."

"What about them?" David asked, looking at Herge and Paznikov worriedly. 

"They'll be right," said Ron. "They'll have people come find them if they don't go back quickly." 

Harry pulled a crow bar from his bag. He broke away a heavy lock from the side of the carriage, and flung open a sliding door. The snowy countryside was a blur of white and icy winds. 

"Interesting," said Ron. 

They would only have to fall from about a metre, but the train had gathered some speed, and David truly didn't relish the idea of being caught underneath a wheel and perishing. 

"The important thing," said Harry, unhelpfully, "Is to think positive thoughts."

"It's a piece of cake," said Ron. "See?" he threw his bags down into the snow, and then without a single care in the world, flung himself from the train. 

"Well," said Harry. "That's our cue."

He snatched the cat from Draco, and threw it out into the snow. It screeched, and Harry suspected that he had just made a lifelong enemy. "Don't worry, they always land on their feet. You ready?"

No. "Yes."

"One," said Harry.

David didn't think the ground had ever been so distant.

 "Two,"

David didn't think he'd ever jumped from so high.

"Three."

David leapt from the carriage, and experienced flight. The wind was in his hair, and God was in his heart, and the sky was so, so big, and then, it was over. He hit the ground hard, and a moment later, his trunk followed him. 

"Madman!" Ron yelled at Harry, who was still on the train. 

David watched on in fear and astonishment as Harry clambered up the side of the carriage and onto the top of the train. 

"Get off!" Ron yelled, but he was grinning.

"Harry!" David cried, laughing. 

"Dumb fucker," said Ron fondly. 

Harry was running towards them, leaping from carriage to carriage even as the train pulled further away. When he reached the last carriage, he hollered a war cry, before sprinting down it's length with the determination of an olympian. He reached the end, and leapt into the air. 

"No sense of his own mortality that one," huffed Ron, as Harry poked his head up from where he'd sunk into the snow. He grinned cheekily, and waved at them. "Bloody menace."

David waved back, before bending over to pick up his trunk.

"Come on then," said Ron. "We've got a long walk ahead of us, and I'd like to grab a beer before all the places close."

They caught up to Harry quickly.

And so it was that three young men, a cat, and a small collection of bags, set off through the Estonian wilderness towards Tallin. Russia was behind them, and their journey had just begun.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bibliography
> 
> "It is 1922 . . . flooded with foreigners" --information within paragraph derived from pg. 86 of The Aftermath of the War, Volume Eight in the Grolier Library of World War I
> 
> OKHRANA The Paris Operations of the Russian Imperial Police  
> http://www.cia.gov/csi/monograph/okhrana/5474-1.html
> 
> The Russian Refugees Between the Wars  
> http://www.rci.rutgers.edu/~glebov/exileworkshop/papers/hill.doc
> 
> Descriptions of winter palace/Imperial Russian ceremonies/celebrations, sourced from the Oxford Illustrated History of Modern Europe, edited by T.C.W Blanning
> 
> Dialogue from Draco's vision taken from the personal diaries and love letters of Tsar Nicholas II and Alexandria Feodorovna, sourced pg. 411-431 of Leslie Carroll's 'Notorious Royal Marriages'
> 
> Additional details, though none specific to this text, have been inspired by events described in Ivan Bunin's 'From The Other Shore', which is the account of a Russian noblist's exile in Paris. He escaped Russia in 1920, and comprises the novel with letters, fiction, and diary entries. Well worth a read if one is interested in a more casual approach to history and the day to day lives of those interesting people. 
> 
> Sorry my bibliography isn't neat and tidy, but I figured, this is not school, this is fic, and it is fun! So just enough detail for people to get the idea of where my information and research has come from! My local library is very sick of me right now :)
> 
> Oh, also, from the much reputed Google Translate, we bring to you 'trakhat'sya' which translates roughly to 'fuck'. It was difficult figuring out wether or not that is the phrase used colloquially in the Russian dialect, I suspect that any book that might have explained is written in Russian. So, to any Russian's that may stumble across this, please forgive me for bastardising your language and your geography. I still don't quite know where the palace is located in correlation with the city!


	3. Chapter 3

**— PART THREE —**

**_NO REST FOR THE WICKED_ **

 

  
**Purgatory**

_noun: a place or state of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven_  

Wormtail, with the long suffering patience of a truly great henchman, pat his masters back to convey a sense of minionly solidarity. Things were different in this world, there was no floor, or sky, only walls, and though he maintained the body of a rodent, Wormtail could speak like a man.

“Master,” he said. “I agree, it is quite d-d-distressing.”

“Paws off, Wormy.” said Lord Voldemort as he glared into the distance.

He had been held captive in limbo for an eternity. Forced to listen to the screams of his victims as they died, over, and over again before his eyes.

This did not inspire the intended reaction, instead of being reduced to realising his regrets and bearing the weight of a more appropriate soul-crushing guilt, Lord Voldemort simply went to bed with a head ache. No matter how loudly they yelled, the collection of disembodied spirits that occupied their days by howling at him had only ever been a source of mild annoyance.

The worse evil, he thought, was his inability to practice sorcery.

“If only I had access to my dark powers,” Voldemort lamented. “Then, I could really do something useful.”

“Hmm,” said Wormtail. “I do not know about that, sir. I do not know. My whiskers have sensed a change.”

“What sort of a change?” Voldemort asked, his red eyes glinting in a particularly snake-like fashion.

Not for the first time, Wormtail wished that he had transformed into something that might look a little less like lunch. He gulped, but Voldemort continued to speak, as though he had never consulted Wormtail at all.

“I did not sacrifice my soul for a curse that would destroy the Malfoy line, only to have one of their sprog crop up five years later with every one of his beautiful blonde locks in tact.”

“Master,” said Wormtail pragmatically, “Did I ever tell you about this fantastic lotion, they say it works wonder for male pattern baldne—”

“He must pay,” Voldemort interrupted. “He’s alive, while I suffer, chained to darkness. A failed curse and an eternity in hell were not a part of my grand plan.”

“Quite, sir.”

“If only I had my reliquary,” said Voldemort, who stood quickly and began to pace.

His bald head shone in the queer lighting emitted from the souls.

“Do you mean,” said Wormtail, fiddling with the chain around his neck. “This old thing?”

Voldemort turned to look at him, and then he smiled slowly. “Wormtail, my most favoured, my most loyal, my most honoured vassal—this is excellent news, really appreciate it, thanks.”

He pulled the chain carelessly from Wormtail’s neck, and eyed the charm greedily. The chain began to grow longer in his hands, and soon it was big enough for Voldemort to put around his neck. The charm hung low near his chest. He gripped it in his fist tightly, and concentrated on drawing forth the power he had stored there, all those years ago.

Gripped by an explosive flow of magical energy, Voldemort directed his attention carefully, he needed to know the location and the status of the Malfoy heir. He needed to know, or he would never rest in peace.

Though his body stayed firmly planted in purgatory, his mind grew wings, and soared through a dark, seemingly endless tunnel, before bursting into consciousness above ground for the first time in five years.

He looked around, and tried to get a sense of his own displacement. Travelling. Through a forrest. With two companions. They were going to stay at an inn. A black haired boy was holding a map, gesturing angrily. A red haired boy was laughing. And there, there he was. The Malfoy boy. He too, was gesturing wildly. Arguing over directions. Voldemort sent a pulse throughout the land, he felt a steam train, and a town nearby, and mountain, and the sea, the taste of salt stuck on his lips, and he recognised the flavour. They were in Estonia.

Voldemort smiled, and was glad he had a specific place to send his demons.

 

  
**Tallinn : A Stop On The Way**

_1922, Tallinn is a sea-side town located on the northern coast of Estonia. Citizens of Tallinn are part of a newly independent Estonia, the Tartu pease treaty has been signed by the Soviet Union, and the Germans. And though the country is currently ruled by an unstable coalition government, the majority of Estonians are satisfied by their new republic, and their new freedom from neighbours._

David woke to the sound of a woman's voice singing in his ear. It was soft, pretty, and almost brittle. It sounded like a lullaby, sung in the sweetest tone he had ever heard.

_Tili Tili Bom_  
_Close your eyes soon_  
_Someone's walking by the window_  
_And knocking at the door_  
   
Draco sat up, and turned to face the woman. He had seen her before, in his vision. Her face was silver in the dark, and she glowed like a conspiracy of stars as she stared into his eyes.

_Tili Tili Bom_  
_Can you hear the birds through the night?_  
_He's already made his way into the house_  
_For those who cannot sleep_  
   
Draco reached out a trembling hand. And so did the woman. Slowly, he stretched his fingers out to touch hers.

_Hear his steps_  
_He's already_  
_Close_

Their hands met. She smiled once. And David woke up again. The room that Harry’s friend had let them stay in was dark. And there was no silver woman by his side. Ron snored, and rolled over. Harry slept on. David wondered what had come over him. He couldn’t remember having ever had a dream before. He was the type of person who either didn’t have them, or forgot them immediately upon waking. Feeling distinctly unsettled, he pulled the covers up over his shoulders, and tried to fall back to sleep.

Three hours later, when they all woke up, the memory of the silver woman had abandoned him completely.

 

 

  
“What’s for breakfast?” Ron asked as he pulled off his night shirt and donned something more appropriate for the day.

Harry rolled over to face them, and looked at his watch before yawning, and sitting up. “Well, Hannah said she’d do us a fry up. Still grateful for that mugging in 1920. I’ll go down and get it, yeah?”

He pulled on one of the dressing gowns Hannah had provided, and headed downstairs.

“Mugging?” asked David, alarmed. He had known of course, that Harry and Ron were not the most reputable people, but he had imagined that they were a more gentlemanly class of criminal, not the sort of ruffians that might mug somebody.

“Clingy ex-boyfriend,” explained Ron. “She couldn’t get rid of him, you know how it is.”

“I most certainly do not,” snapped David.

“What?” laughed Ron. “Never had a proper boyfriend before?”

David scoffed. “Some of us are decent.”

“Decent?” Ron asked.

“It’s important to wait,” David insisted.

He had always believed that, and Maxime had agreed with him.

“Until when?” Ron asked incredulously.

“Why, until one falls deeply in love, you idiot?”

He knew of course, that some people didn’t care very much about finding precisely the right person, but David had always been selective. When he found the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, he would know. People had told him before that it was an unrealistic expectation, but David was determined not to sell himself short on romance. he wouldn’t be satisfied by anyone less than a soulmate.

Ron shook his head. “You’re a girl, Markova.”

David opened his mouth to argue, but there was a sound on the stairs like Harry had come back with food, and the topic was dropped in favour of bacon and eggs.

  
After breakfast, it was decided that Ron would visit the docks and sort out their transport for the next day.

Harry had spent an hour or so trying to decide wether or not they would travel by land or sea. In the end, Ron had gotten bored and flipped a coin, and it had been resolved that they would rent a room in a ship.

David didn’t care either way, the sooner they arrived in Paris, the better. After the incident on the train, and a bad nights rest, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had enemies abroad. He did not want to fight anyone, watching Ron and Harry do so had felt like an adventurous romp at the time, but upon reflection, David wondered how he would cope if there was a repeat of the situation, and he was expected to commit some act of violence. He’d never so much as pinched anyone before, or at least, he didn’t think he had. And as far as getting in a fight? The most he had ever been involved in had been scuffles with the other children at the orphanage, and never anything too extreme.

With Ron gone, David was left with Harry, who didn’t appear to want to do much beside brood.

David looked around the small room for something to occupy himself. He strode over to the window and peered out on the town. All of the buildings in Tallinn were built in much the same way; white walls and red rooftops. He could make out a number of Catholic churches intercepting the skyline with their bells, and several mosques, distinct in both their form and feature. From the outside, it appeared to be a town that held deeply religious, if opposing, beliefs. Though, as Draco looked closer at the buildings nearest to the inn, he couldn’t help but notice that while the spiritual buildings had fallen into some disrepute, all of the local businesses were bustling with people.

David flung the window open and breathed in deeply. The air was fresh, and he fancied he could smell the sea.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ Harry asked suddenly.

David turned to look at him, but Harry had hardly even glanced up, instead, he was paying close attention to a book, and just for something different, more documents.

“Enjoying myself,” said David. “You could try it sometime.”

“Ah,” replied Harry. “He’s a comedian now.”

“I’m going out.” said David, gesturing past the window, “To sight-see.”

“You can’t,” replied Harry, barely looking up from his work. “You don’t know your way around, or the language.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t,” Harry repeated. “It’s naive to run about Tallinn on one’s own, anything could happen. A knife in an alley, a mugger in the street, or a cut-throat at the grocers. Frankly, I don’t fancy your odds of surviving if one of them discovers your piss-poor attitude.”

“You’d be the expert,” said David snidely, meaning to cast unsavoury aspersions over Harry’s past misdeeds.

“Yes,” replied Harry mildly, and without concern or shame. “I am.”

David flung his arms into the air in exasperation. What had started as a calm conversation had escalated into a minor crisis that led David to wonder if finding his family was even worth tolerating such irritating company. “You’d have me what, cooped up here? Trying to fathom, for hours on end, wether it’s more dull to watch you or the paint dry?”

“The paint is dry.” remarked Harry. “And you’re staying.”

David scowled, it wasn’t so much that staying would be entirely terrible, he just hated the idea of doing so when it would mean giving Harry the impression that he was obedient or in need of a spine. “I suppose you think you can stop me?”

Harry put his book down, and smiled tightly. “I wouldn’t presume to, though I had rather hoped that your own common sense might step up to the task.”

David pulled the window shut with a snap. “I’ll be fine.” he said.

“I don’t doubt it.” Harry replied.

David waited, but it seemed that that was all Harry was going to say upon the matter. David took a deep breath, and stalked towards the door. He kept his back straight, and the line of his mouth firm. Years in an orphanage had taught him how to express what he wanted or felt without using anything so paltry as words. He wondered if Harry was perceptive enough, or even learned enough, to read that sort of language.

“David,” he heard Harry say.

And yes, there was a note of exasperation trembling in Harry’s tone like a tired child. He understood David perfectly. Slowly, David turned back around. He kept his expression cool, and one eyebrow elegantly pointed. He did not see why Harry shouldn’t continue to sense his displeasure.

“You forgot your cloak,” Harry said archly, he did not look impressed.

David turned on his heel, and exited cooly, and because he was proud, or perhaps a little too determined to prove Harry wrong, he didn’t bother to fetch his cloak.

  
Ten minutes later, David was freezing.

Breathing in the temper of the town, he’d reached the city square, people surrounded him in every direction; merchants trading their wares, fishermen hauling their gains, and grubby children running every which way. The cobblestone pavement was covered in grime, scraps, and oyster shells. The wind on Draco’s face was biting and chill. He wished he’d brought his cloak, but there was nothing on the planet that could compel him to return to his room and collect it under Harry’s smug gaze.

He shivered, but drew himself up, and marched on.

He still had some loose change from Maxime, he used it to purchase a small bottle of warm goats milk, which he held carefully in his hands to warm his fingers before guzzling happily. Milk was a treat, especially in Russia. He supposed that Estonia had been less affected by recent political disasters than his own country had, even if he could still spy some evidence that Tallinn had not survived totally untouched.

A large monumental tank was mounted at the centre of the square; a glistening, jet black war machine that made David wonder if the future would always look so deadly. He did not know how he felt about all the new technology that had been generated by the hate and greed of battle. He wondered if the scientists who invented these things knew that they were giving ordinary men the power to act as God.

Hundreds of soldiers could be shot down by just one tank. David did not see it as necessary. Such an immediate and profuse loss of human life seemed wasteful. He did not think humans could have created anything worse.

Milk sour in his stomach, David tried very consciously to disengage. Though externally, it might’ve seemed that hate, and evil, and powerful politicians with no hearts or regrets were inevitable, he knew that if he focused all his energy into his quest, for family and for love, that he could be irrevocably happy. And he could overcome any enemy.

“Hey, Markova.” 

David turned around.

Harry was holding out his cloak and looking sheepish. “Sorry for being rude, there’s a lot on my mind.”

“Yes,” replied David. “Well.”

He snatched the cloak and pulled it over his shoulders quickly.

Harry snorted. “It’s considered polite to reciprocate apologies, did you know?”

“I don’t see why I should apologise,” sniffed David. “After all, I wasn’t in the wrong.”

Harry sighed, but a smile tugged at his lips, and David was glad to see it. Harry struck him as the sort of person who didn’t let himself be happy often. Though he did suspect, that all of Harry’s happiness was honest and true. There was nothing so satisfying as making a person who was hesitant to express joy, laugh.

“Would you like me to show you around?” Harry asked, “I’ve finished my work for the day.”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said yet, Potter.” David replied.

“I just want one thing in return.”

David paused. “What?”

“I think, that from now on, we should try and refer to you as Draco. And you should try and think of yourself in the same way.”

David considered this carefully. The only sense of identity he had was derived from his name. Giving it up would mean giving up the only parts of himself that he was sure of, the only parts of himself he was properly acquainted with. Giving ‘David’ up would mean embracing a mysterious past that he didn’t understand or remember.

“Why?”

“So you can get used to it.”

Fair enough, David supposed. If it turned out he was related to the grand duchess, he did not want to seem uncomfortable or unsure in his new role as a most beloved nephew. He wanted to fit in. Even if he wasn’t quite sure where he wanted to do that just yet.

“But what about Draco’s enemies, the people who might kill him if he’s discovered?”

There were thousands, surely. The Malfoy name was so stigmatised that in some Russian towns people were forbidden to speak it. He’d heard stories, rumours, of men and women who’d been burned alive, or lynched, for betraying Vladimir Lenin’s communist regime. No one in Russia was supposed to speak ill of the newly imposed Soviet Union, and yet, you would have to have been hiding under a rock to escape the criticisms that were so oft uttered by the citizens and their neighbours in western Europe.

Harry grinned. “There are thousands of Draco’s, Draco. It was a very popular name, for a short time after the prince was born.”

David knew that, there where at least three young boys who’d been named for the prince before the revolution had gripped the nation and royalty went out of fashion.

“I’ll consider it.” said David. “I refuse to lie, but I’ll consider it.”

“Good enough,” said Harry, casually resting a hand on his lower back and leading him away from the market, “Now, up this way you’ll find…”

_Later…_

They walked the streets of Tallinn for another few hours, David was particularly fascinated by the harbour, and all of the mighty ships that had docked there. Harry pointed out the one they would board the next day, and David’s jaw dropped at it’s size. He wondered how it could possibly float, all that heavy metal.

They stopped to have some warm bread from a small bakers shop by the pier. Harry repulsed him utterly by feeding some to the sea gulls, all of which, having noted Harry’s generosity, spent the next ten minutes flocking at their feet. David tried to shoo some of them away, but as far as birds went, they were without shame, and entirely fearless. Eventually, Harry ran out of bread, and most of them cut their losses.

After that, David demanded he be taken to an Orthodox Church.

“I can’t believe you’re religious.” said Harry, shaking his head.

He looked as though he didn’t quite know how to talk to David anymore, despite the fact that they had been conversing almost pleasantly for a while now.

“Why not?” David asked, as they crossed over the threshold.

Stained windows refracted coloured light through the open building, brilliant hues of red, blue, and green painted the walls in strips. The image of a benevolent Christ adorned the back wall, his head was hung low, and crowned by thistles. All of the pews had been nailed to the floor in neat rows.

“I just don’t see how you can have any faith, at all, state of the world what it is.” said Harry, his eyes were dark, and David found himself wondering if Harry was the sort of person who had grown up with spiritual beliefs, only to have had them dashed in the face of tragedy, or, if he’d alway been cynically inclined.

“It’s not something I think about,” replied David. “It’s just something I believe, and know.”

Harry sat down on one of the back pews. “That doesn’t make any sense. You can’t possibly know. Not for sure.”

David frowned. “I don’t need to know for sure,” he said. “That’s what faith _is_.”

It wasn’t something he analysed often, his relationship with philosophy or religion. The orphanage had been funded by the church, and so the moral code enforced within the institute had been a distinctly christian one. He had been grateful, and happy enough to go along. “What are you? If not christian?”

Harry chuckled darkly. “I’m an atheist. Would you like to smite me now?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t smite you.” David replied, and then more seriously. “Though I don’t think it’s particularly tactful to say that in a church.”

Harry hummed in a non-committal fashion. He looked immensely careless.

David closed his eyes to block Harry out and appreciate the atmosphere for a moment. There was a nice feeling in the church. He would have very much enjoyed attending a service.

Harry began to tap his foot.

“Do you mind?” David hissed.

“Not at all.” said Harry, who didn’t bother to stop.

“Why?” David asked bluntly.

“Why won’t I stop tapping my foot?” said Harry. “I don’t know, something about that furious tick in your jaw really motivates me.”

“No, you blithering fool, I mean why are you an—” he paused, and uttered the last word in a whisper, “— _atheist?"_

“My parents were.” said Harry simply. “They died though. On Bloody Sunday. I was one. But after that, I knew on my own terms that no ‘God’ would condone the horrors and the violence that take place on this forsaken Earth. And I’ll let you in on something, David. Between you and me, if He does exist, and He does have the power to stop terrible things but does nothing, then He’s not the sort of god I care to follow anyway.”

David felt very uncomfortable. He’d never met an atheist before, not that he remembered. In his studies, he had learned that most of them were heathens, or sinners. It surprised him that Harry could present such a logical case. Maxime had once told him that men without belief, weren’t filled with anything, they had a dearth of emotion, and no capacity for goodness. Though, if he reflected, he knew that couldn’t be true. Since David had met him, Harry had shown that he was clever, and calculating, and brave, and yes, even good, sometimes.

The world would be a lot easier to deal with, mused David, if everyone who held beliefs that conflicted with his own, was ugly, or mean, or untalented. Instead, the world was wholly complex, populated by charismatic dictators, and unsightly do-gooders, and kind-hearted villains.

Everything, he thought, would be so much simpler if one’s enemies did not also have good qualities. He shook himself, Harry wasn’t his enemy. Harry was an ally, who happened to share different opinions. And that was fine, they could still work together, and David could still admire him, even if they were different in some respects.

“What is bloody Sunday?” he asked.

Harry’s face turned stony for a moment, before he forcibly relaxed. “It was a protest that happened years ago now. A bunch of people, mostly labourers, marched on the palace in Saint Petersburg to protest.”

“Your parents among them?” David asked.

He had never been in a protest, but he had seen them, in newspapers and occasionally in the streets. They were often unpleasant, and people always got hurt. Wether they were injured by their fellow protesters, or a brutal authority, the result was the same.

Harry. “Yes.”

David. “What happened?”

“They were shot like dogs by royal soldiers.” said Harry angrily, his eyes were bright, and he was nearly spitting. “Hundreds died, simply because they needed better conditions to survive and no one in power was willing to listen. My parents were fighting to change things, but they were killed for it.”

David tried to imagine what it might’ve been like. The cruelty of it. And Harry had been only one.

“What happened to you?” David asked.

“Oh, well I was lucky, really. My father was from a good family, until he married my mum. After their murders one of his old, wealthy friends placed me with my aunt and uncle, paid them to take me in and such. When I got old enough, he organised my employment too.”

“I’m sorry,” said David.

“Don’t be sorry,” said Harry. “You’ve no reason to be. And anyway, it happened a long time ago now. I’m mostly over it.”

David thought about that hard, and contemplated the way Harry’s face had turned pale just talking about it. “You must hate the Malfoy’s,” he said. “I can’t fathom why you’d want to help one when your parents were killed on their doorstep.”

Harry grinned, but he didn’t look happy. “You’ve misjudged me,” he said. “This isn’t a fairytale quest to re-unite the prince with his aunt, that might be a bonus for you, but for me it’s about money, and claiming a prize from people who thought they were better than my parents.”

“That makes sense,” David whispered. “I really hope that satisfies you, even though I don’t have much faith it will.”

Harry had not ever struck him as the sort of person who could be gratified by a minor revenge. It wouldn’t surprise David at all, if having won his prize, Harry was still as upset about his parents deaths as he clearly was now.

“We’ll see,” said Harry.

David whispered a prayer, for himself and for Harry, before standing. “Come,” he said. “We can go now.”

They stepped outside, and David noticed immediately that the sky had brightened. When they had entered the church, it had been grey and overcast. Now, the mid-afternoon sun had broken out from behind the clouds and shone merrily down upon the town.

“I don’t feel like going back yet,” said David, letting the sun warm his cheeks. “It’s too pleasant.”

“I agree,” said Harry indulgently, having left the church and their conversation behind he was looking far more cheerful. “I know a garden we can visit, none of the flowers will be in bloom, but I think it will still be pretty.”

  
They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the various botanic delights that littered the city. There were frozen ponds to jump over, and snowballs to throw, and even a rickety old tire swing for Harry to push him, however reluctantly, on.

Since he had discovered Harry’s distaste for the spiritual, David took particular pleasure in winding Harry up; making wishes on eyelashes, avoiding black cats and taking care not to walk on cracks were just a few things that David learned were guaranteed to earn him a narrow look. Now that he knew Harry was an utter cynic, he took special care to wax poetic about superstitions and rhapsodise about whatever fancy took his, er, fancy.

“This is not encouraging me to lend any more credibility to religious people,” groaned Harry as they passed by an open ladder.

“It’s bad luck,” David argued. “Seven years, pinky swear it.”

“It’s bullshit.” Harry replied, “Just watch. I’m going to walk under, and nothing bad is going to happen.”

David laughed, and then stopped. “Wait, no, don’t actually—”

But it was too late, Harry had already back-pedalled, and stepped jauntily through the ladder, before grinning at David and bowing deeply.

“I hope you choke.” said David snottily.

“But I probably won’t.” Harry replied.

  
As the sky darkened, Harry looked at his watch.

“We should head back, Ron will be wondering where we are.” 

“Didn’t you think to leave a note?”

“I told Hannah to pass on the message, but we should’ve been back an hour ago. Come on.”

They made their way back through the gardens and the streets to the inn. When they arrived, Ron was waiting out the front, having a cigarette. David breathed the second hand smoke in deeply.

“D’you want one?” Ron asked, holding out his packet.

David slid one out of the box. “I’ve been dying for some nicotine since Pita’s,”

“Same. Harry doesn’t smoke, so this will be the first time I have a comrade,” said Ron.

“Harry?" he extended the offer to Harry, who shook his head. "No? Okay. He doesn’t understand relaxation, that one.”

“I’ve noticed.” said David, he held out his smoke for Ron to light. “Thanks.”

David hoisted himself up onto the fence, and let his legs dangle. The street was calmer now, the evening had sent all of the people scurrying back to their homes. The snow fell softly, and the moon was an oyster grin over the bay.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Hermione is not going to be impressed.”

“Miss Granger can stow it,” said Ron. “Not like I haven’t seen her on the opium pipe when she thought no one was peeping.”

“Frankly,” said Harry. “Your observations of her border on stalking. And you know that was just an experiment.”

Ron snorted, wether at Harry's claim or Hermione's 'scientific explanation' it was hard to tell.

“As though you can talk,” said Ron, “I remember that guy in Moscow you pined after, what was his name again… doesn’t matter, you cried over him for months!”

“Did not.” said Harry crossly.

“Did too.”

Harry whacked Ron over the head. In retaliation, Ron tackled Harry to the ground, and they proceeded to wrestle amidst the snow. David smoked calmly, and wondered if they were always like this. And what that guy from Moscow looked like.

He looked up when he heard a gasp, just in time to see Ron sit on Harry’s chest, lick his finger, and shove it in Harry’s ear.

“Ugh,” said Harry. He wrinkled his nose. “I hate you.”

Ron’s expression adopted an odd combination of feral and glee. “Only children, am I right?” he said to David. “So easy to beat on.”

David smiled in understanding. He didn’t know if he had siblings or not, but he had spent his last few years in an orphanage, and that had taught him all he needed to know about youth warfare. He wondered if out there, somewhere, he had a brother, or even a sister. And if he did, were they older or younger? Someone for him to look after? Or someone to look after him?

“Let me up, you wanker.” said Harry.

Ron rolled away, and lay on his back. “Get down here Markova, we’re making snow angels.”

David, from the top of the fence, said. “Why?”

“Why not?” Harry said. “I would’ve thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know if I do.” said David doubtfully, looking down at the cold ground.

“Fuck's sake, Markova.” said Ron, who sat, swivelled, and grabbed David’s ankle. “Get down here,” he tugged, and David fell into the snow with a huff.

Since he was down anyway, David crawled over beside Harry, and lay back. His coat was thick enough that only his neck was cold. He looked up at the stars, and exhaled. A small cloud of smoke and chill disapparated into the night.

“S’pretty.” said Harry, he too was looking up at the intricate silhouettes of the Tallinn architecture, and the clear, unpolluted sky.

David turned his head slightly to look at Harry’s face. “Yes.”

  
The next morning dawned bright, and the world had transformed over night, heavier snow than ever had painted the town white, frost danced through the air and the harbour was as cold as ice. David was wearing nearly every item of clothing he owned, and was quite sure he looked ridiculous. Two scarves adorned his neck, one under his coat, and the other around his nose and earlobes. Harry, the bastard, wasn’t nearly as affected. He’d woken up just as disgruntled as Draco, but it had only taken him a few mouthfuls of Hannah’s coffee before he’d perked right up.

David, who had woken again feeling unsettled, couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that they were being watched. When they boarded the boat, David couldn’t help but feel slightly nostalgic, he’d only spent two days in the town, but for some reason, the red rooftops and the atmosphere had made a mark on his soul. If ever he had the opportunity to visit the town again, he would.

Ron, who’d lost a game of cards the night before, took their bags down to their room. Harry stayed with David as the boat drifted further and further away from the shore. They watched as the land became a nought but a distant horizon, and David began to wish that he could sail away from all his problems that easily. He was not worried about their tickets, Harry had assured him before they left that this time, they had been careful to follow the appropriate legal procedures in procuring transport. David was grateful, because even though he had come to think of their great train escape as something of an adventure, he didn’t fancy their chances jumping from a boat in the middle of the Baltic Sea.

The boat itself was full of labourers, working men looking for jobs across Europe. David had been expecting it to be louder, but for the most part, the passengers seemed keen to keep to themselves.

Only the captain, a rugged man by the name of Aberforth, spoke to them. “Mind you don’t step below the first level of rooms. Got a client transporting livestock down in the hull. Supposedly, strangers spook the goats, and no one’s to visit ‘em, not even _me_.”

  
The voyage was supposed to last two to three days, depending on the weather. They would be served meals at breakfast and at dinner, and be given free access to the deck. David intended to spend the time reading.

Harry and Ron had been encouraging him to research the Malfoy family since they had set off on the journey, but only now did he feel comfortable enough to explore those avenues. Only time would tell how right they felt to him. As Tallinn disappeared into the fog, David gripped his medallion tightly, until he could almost feel it breaking his skin. Nothing was going to stop him now, not if he kept moving forward.

Dinner was adequate. David couldn’t think of another word. Anything more would have been an exaggeration, anything less, ungrateful. As far as slop went though, it wasn’t bad. Ron wolfed it down as though he had never seen a meal before, despite the fact that David had almost seen him eat twice his body weight in porridge that very morning.

“We should put you on rations,” he said to Ron. "I don't think you've fully realised there's a famine on."

“Nah,” Ron replied, with a mouth full of food. “I’m a growing boy, helps me get big and strong.”

“You’re a lug,” Harry muttered, looking up from his newspaper.

“Oii,” said Ron. “I remember when you were nice, and not such a swot. I’ll be having words with Miss Granger about it, this is her influence to be sure.”

“Miss Granger?” David inquired, this was the second time he had heard them reference her in a conversation, and he was curious about anyone who would associate regularly with them.

“The love of Ronald’s life.” said Harry dryly, smirking at the sport's column.

Ron’s ears grew pink.

“Shut up,” said Ron, but David noticed that his eyes were shifty.

Harry set down his papers, and addressed David. “She lives in France. We’ll be going to meet her soon. She’s a very intelligent, well-bred woman.”

“Bossy, and far too political.” Ron added, folding his arms.

Harry rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t like her if she wasn’t herself. David, you’ll find she’s very exacting.”  

“And exasperating.”

“Did she teach you that word?” Harry asked.

Ron blushed.

 

After tea, they went straight to their room. It was dark in the hallway, and David squinted at Harry, who had to feel his way down by counting the doors.

“Here,” Harry said eventually.

They entered. The room was small, with a bunk bed comprised of two thin singles.

“I’ll take the floor,” said Harry, crossing the room and pulling a thin mattress from his bag.

He unrolled it, and sat down. David took the bottom bunk. He didn’t bother changing into pyjamas. The cold was still affecting him, and he didn’t want to risk the warmth he might lose by removing his cloak and scarves. Instead, he tucked himself under the worn sheet provided, and lay his head down to rest. The bed creaked deeply as Ron hauled himself onto the top bunk, and the boat swayed with the current, and as David peered up at the port hole, he realised how unsettling it was to be submerged. The window was completely underwater, and all he could see through the thick glass was an inky oceanic abyss.

He closed his eyes, and hoped that if he slept for long enough, they might have arrived by the time he woke up.

  
David was dancing. He was in a courtyard, olive trees and terracotta pots interspersed the garden. The sky above was a melting pot of brilliant colour, purple, and orange, and pink dazzled him behind a foreground of golden stars. He continued to step carefully across the tiles, moving to a silent rhythm, ducking and whirling and flicking his wrists in time with the beats. Butterflies and fairies flit about the clearing in dazzling hordes, their wings glinting like exotic jewels. He heard a dog bark, and looked to the side.

A thin greyhound was waiting for him between two archaic stone columns, it wagged it’s tail, and barked again, before turning and padding down an avenue lined with perfectly formed crab-apple trees. David followed the dog without question.

The end of the path was but a speck in the distance. The dog bounded carelessly around trees and through piles of red leaves. David laughed, and ran after it.

“Draco,” said a voice.

David paused. A tall figure stepped out from behind one of the trees. He was dressed in a fine suit and a cape, his long blonde hair was tied back in an elaborate ribbon.

“Who are you?” David asked.

The man assessed him quietly, before nodding. “Follow me, child.”

David walked with him up the avenue, the man spent a long time staring at him, and eventually grasped his hand tightly, as though he hated the idea of ever letting go. David didn’t mind. Soon, they came to a pond, the man crossed it easily, relying on conveniently placed stones to get him past the water. David went after him, but the rocks were slippery, and there were a few times he almost lost his grip and fell. There was a fragrance in the air, like narcissus. He breathed it in deeply, before trying again. He tripped at the shore, but quicker than anything he caught himself on a vine and held it tightly. For a moment, he could have sworn it looked more like a rope, but he must have been wrong, because the fantasy man was beckoning him still.

“Draco!?” someone was calling him, through the trees, he couldn’t see them, he didn’t care who they were.

He followed the man with the silver hair.

Soon, they came to a swimming hole, far bigger than the pond. Laughing people swam about at the bottom, three women, maybe sisters, sunbathing on a rock, side by side. The blonde one was singing something, but David couldn’t hear what.

“Let’s go in, Draco.” said the man, he had taken off his cape, the suit had disappeared, and he was wearing black bathers.

“Jump, Draco.” he said, “And we’ll be together.”

David trusted the man. He took a step forward.

“Draco! Draco! David!” the cry was growing more frantic, David frowned.

“Jump.” said the man.

“David!” called the voice.

Jump. David. Jump. David. Something was happening. The ground was moving, and he could hear waves…

“Jump!”

The silver haired man’s face was melting, and his teeth were growing sharp, and his eyes had sunken into his skull. David stepped back, but the man followed, his voice sibilant and full of hatred.

“Jump, Draco,” he said. “Jump, and fall.” 

But David had stumbled back, and in doing so, fallen out of the dream. The fires disappeared, and instead, rats scurried everywhere, chewing at the corners of his vision and tearing it at the seams.

He fell against a sturdy pole, and was shocked to find himself awake, and hanging precariously to a fishing line at the topmost point of the ship. He blinked salty water out of his eyes and tried to see more clearly. The ship had been caught up in a storm, wind howled in his ears, and the raindrops felt more like spears than anything else. This was why David believed in God, nothing so great or so terrible could happen by accident. The waves were like walls, reaching into the sky, before crashing down on them. The deck was covered in water, and every time the tide pulled, the boat leaned so far to the side it was almost horizontal. The water loomed closer with every disturbance.

“David!”

David looked around frantically. There, down by the captains cabin. Harry was coming for him, climbing the structure quickly and without fear. Everything was dark, and wet, and furious. David clung to the line for dear life, keeping his ankles locked around one of the mast poles. Lightning flashed and for a moment, David could have sworn he saw a giant snake-like face, staring at him through the water, but he blinked, and it was gone.

“Harry,” said David, reaching out.

Harry helped him down, even as the boat continued to rock. They made their way down to the top deck, and ducked for cover behind some barrels that had been secured to the boards.

“When I say so,” Harry shouted. “We run to the door.”

David nodded. Harry counted down with his fingers, and as one, they made a dash for their room.

In the hallway, Harry slammed the door shut behind them. David fell back against the wall, trembling. “I had the worst dream,” he said. “The absolute worst.”

“You’re okay,” said Harry, he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

David was amazed that he’d gone out looking for him, through the rain and through short-sightedness.

“I’ve got you.” said Harry, like he wasn't sure he believed it.

David embraced him tightly, as the adrenalin buzzed low under his skin. Harry held him back just as fiercely, and David knew he was safe. The storm raged on outside, but for the moment, nothing could touch him.

“I told you you shouldn’t have walked under that ladder,” said David.

Harry groaned.

 

 

_Thousands of miles away, trapped in a prison of his own making, Voldemort shrieked in fury. Wormtail, ever faithful, made sure to hold his hand._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I read, the more I realise how fascinating the history of Russia is. It's so large, and because it crosses not one, but two continents (Asian, and European) there is such an interesting clash of cultures and people who live there. 
> 
> For the first time, I explored religion (only a little) in writing (i felt that it fit the time). I don't know, we'll see. I felt that it would have been disingenuous in a way to ignore the idea of faith in a fic that is semi-dealing with the aftermath of world war one.
> 
> Not so many references this time. I used the same books and websites as I did for chapters one and two (listed in end notes of chapter two). New research pretty much only included reading the wiki for Estonia, looking at Google maps to see which ocean was above it, and finding this creepy Russian song:
> 
>  
> 
> Tili Tili Bom
> 
>  
> 
> you can find me on tumblr
> 
> thank you for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

**— PART FOUR —**

_**PARIS HOLDS THE KEY**_

 

  
**Across Boarders : The Beginning of Spring**

_While the rest of Europe groped it’s way toward peace, Germany stood burning with fury. Citizens of every political affiliation seethed with bitter dissatisfaction over the war’s ending, and many were eager to correct the perceived injustice, France was it’s direct contrast, a pulsing heart of hope, and love, and art, that Europe needed desperately after such a thorough destruction as it had faced in years prior._

The air in Travemunde was significantly warmer than that of Estonia. Spring seemed to have settled into the region much more confidently that it had in Russia. It had only been three days since David had last seen the snow-capped horizons of eastern Europe, and yet, the west had shed the icy cloak of winter almost entirely. Flowers bloomed, the sky was perfect cerulean, and the trees were bigger and more full of life than David had seen in months. Best of all, after disembarking the ship with relief, he had become immediately aware of the temperature. He wasn’t cold anymore! Discarding the gloves, the scarves, and the extra coat, David let the sun shine down on his face, warming his cheeks and his heart. Despite the abundance of natural beauty, it would have been difficult to miss the temper of the city. The buildings, though significantly different in terms of architecture to those David had seen in Russia, carried much the same feeling; the majority of storefronts seemed to have fallen into disrepair, the paint did not shine as David knew it must have once. Like in Russia, beggars lined the streets, and men in suits that had seen better days, spoke in hushed whispers. It seemed to big a contradiction, that nature could be so beautiful when mothers were ushering their children quickly through the street, as though they were hesitant to stay out in the open for too long.

Harry had pulled out his watch again. “We have forty minutes until the coach leaves. Tea?”

Both David and Ron responded in the affirmative, and so the three of them, plus cat, spent the next fifteen sitting in a cramped cafe while an elderly woman, who was the store’s owner, talked loudly at them in German.

Boarding the coach was easy enough, it would only take them as far as the border, and so they didn’t need proof of their identity the way they might have if the coach had intended to take them out of Germany. Inside, it was cramped, for whatever reason it seemed as though the only passengers were elderly couples and a young family with two squalling babies. David did not treasure the prospect of listening to all of these people for the next two days, he doubted his sanity could take it.

“Don’t go to sleep,” said Harry, who was sitting beside him. “You need to study.”

“Study?” David asked, sitting up. “Whatever for?”

“Meeting the grand duchess will go a lot smoother if you have an understanding of her world, Ron and I think it would be best if you read a little about your family, so we got you these books.”

He pulled some heavy tomes from his bag that David had not seen him buy.

“You make it sound as though my being a Malfoy is a foregone conclusion, Potter. We have no evidence.”

Harry looked at him darkly. “If not even a tiny part of you believed you might be Draco Malfoy, why did you waste my time coming on this trip?” he asked.

David felt his cheeks heating. “You convinced me! You were the one who said it might be true. I was just following up on a dream.”

“And it still might come true. But you need to learn some key lessons first,” he shoved the books into David’s lap. “Happy reading.”

  
When the coach arrived in Auchen, a small German town near the western border of Belgium, David was very tired, very anxious, and very well informed. He had learned about table manners, and Malfoy traditions, and houses across Europe. He couldn’t help but wonder how he could ever fit into a world like that. It was no use denying that he enjoyed beauty and pleasure, he had had those things in common with the Malfoy’s at least, but he found himself doubting wether or not he could be trusted not to embarrass them in some way, by committing some social faux-pas that he had no recollection of, or committing some obscure act of defiance without intending to.

The Malfoy world was full of rules and expectations. David did not know if he could ever meet them, even if it did turn out the grand duchess Andromeda recognised him. They did not spend much time in Auchen. David was introduced to two more of Harry and Ron’s friends, Dean and Seamus, who smuggled them across the border in the back of their motorcar. They drove for an hour, before they felt safe enough to let Harry, David and Ron take actual seats. David, who had a crick in his neck, made sure to kick Harry out of the passengers seat.

They drove for a long time, almost four hours, David couldn’t help but revel in the journey. The countryside of Belgium was wonderful, luscious farmlands and crystal lakes that had made a point of trapping the sky. The wind blew in David’s hair and his scarf sailed out behind him, hitting Harry in the face. Harry promptly tugged on it, and David’s neck was exposed to the cold.

“Wanker,” he said, turning around to glare.

Harry grinned toothily, and put the scarf on himself. Disinclined to wage world war two for it, David turned back to the front with his nose in the air, and determined himself to ignore Harry, and enjoy the drive. He felt dreadfully modern, the motor thrummed like a dragon and huffed like a beast. They were dangerous, and young, and free that day. David whooped loudly, even though he felt rather uncouth, and shut his eyes. The other boys, bar Harry, joined in. David had never known such joy.

Eventually though, it had to end. Dean pulled over by a forested road that ran adjacent to the French border, and helped Ron to unload their bags from the boot. “We’ll leave you here,” he said in his deep calm voice, before clapping Ron and Harry over the back. “It was good seeing you both, and meeting you, David.”

They shook hands, and then David, Harry and Ron stood back as Seamus started up the car, Dean swung into the passengers seat, and the two zoomed back the way they had come, soon, only a cloud of dust signalled that they had ever been there.

“I’m going to have a motorcar like that,” said Ron wistfully, “When I’m rich. Miss Granger would have my guts for garters, but I dare say the benefits outweigh the cost.”

Harry pulled out his watch. “Come on, we have another long walk ahead of us.”

David looked deep into the woods, and breathed in deeply. The fresh floral scent of spring hit his lungs, and he was struck dumb by the glorious possibility of life. Winter and war and worry was over, he mused, he couldn’t wait to see the opportunities that the new season provided.

 

**Two Weeks Later : The Jazz Scene, Those Darling Suffragettes, and Love in Paris**

David had gotten very good at walking. So good, in fact, that his legs ached with it.

“It’s good for you,” said Harry, which was hardly reassuring.

“And it will be terrible for you if my legs fall off,” David promised, making sure that he looked deeply threatening.

Harry, who was in annoyingly high spirits, only flashed him a sharp, white smile. “I’m sure it will be,” he agreed mildly.

“You’ll have to carry me to Paris,” said David haughtily. “Providing you can move when I’m through with you.”

“Well,” said Harry slyly. “If I can move when you’re through with me we’ll put it down to a lack of experience and try again.” 

“What?” David asked, looking at him blankly.

“Never mind.” Harry said, turning away with bright cheeks. “Oh, look. We’re nearly at Hermione’s.”

“Are we visiting her?” David asked, vaguely anticipatory, he was curious to see the woman who had so bewitched Ron, whose ears turned pink whenever Harry said her name.

On cue, David turned to Ron and watched them flush.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Ron and I promised to attend a rally with her before she takes us to the grand duchess.”

David frowned. “Why is she taking us? Don’t you have a meeting arranged?”

Harry and Ron exchanged covert looks. David huffed. “You two have the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. I can see when you pull those faces you know.”

Ron looked somewhat ashamed, Harry looked away.

“What’s going on?” David demanded, halting in the middle of the track.

“Keep walking, Markova.” said Harry, pulling out his clock again and blanking David.

That was unacceptable. “Look at me,” David said sternly.

Harry, for once, obeyed.

Mollified, David allowed some vulnerability to trickle down into his tone. “Do you really believe I could be the lost prince of Russia?”

Harry nodded earnestly, and came to stand by his shoulder. “Of course, David. We wouldn’t have embarked on this journey if I didn’t think that you had all the regal bearing, the grace, the—”

It was time to interrupt. David shoved Harry back. “Then stop telling me what to do.”

Harry gaped at him.

“If I’m royalty then it would hardly do to be taking orders from you.” David said, standing straight and folding his arms.

He expected Harry to retaliate. Instead, when he turned around, Harry was watching him sombrely, green eyes intense and glittering like emeralds. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I suppose we couldn’t have kept it quiet much longer.”

David laughed. “You shouldn’t have kept anything quiet at all.”

He would never have admitted it, but being left out of a secret in their plans stung slightly. Indignance swirled in his gut like a sour vortex, and he would’ve have said something cutting had he not spent the past day reading about etiquette and more sophisticated methods of appropriating respect. He doubted snapping out some childish remark would make Harry or Ron take him more seriously, and let him in on future details. No, he would listen to what Harry had to say, respond calmly, and react as befitting a possible Malfoy. That was to say, with grace, respect, and dignity.

“Hermione Granger acts as a proxy to the grand duchess. No one meets Lady Andromeda without first being carefully vetted.”

“What!?” David shrieked. “I have followed you both, and played my part in this hare-brained scheme because you led me to believe that is was more casual, and I could approach the grand duchess without being sure of myself. Am I to believe that now, after all this travel, and all this time, you’re only just telling me that you want me to lie?”

“Well,” said Harry. “Err, yes?”

David scowled so viciously that Harry actually took a step back. “I’ll be back later. Don’t follow me.”

He stalked away. There was much to consider. Leaving Ron and Harry to their own selves, David trekked down a small pathway they had passed earlier. It was picturesque, and incredibly french, the landscape was neat and ornamental, small statues of angels lined the path, and up ahead, was a small bridge that looked as though it had been plucked directly from a fairytale. A stream gurgled merrily beneath it. David, full of restless energy, ran towards it, and carefully swung his legs over the rail so that his toes might have touched the water if the bridge hadn’t been so high. He gripped one of the pillars loosely. He wouldn’t really injure himself if he fell in, but he didn’t fancy his chances of avoiding a cold.

Looking down at the limpid water, he could see his reflection as clearly as he would have in a looking glass. The water that rushed past was ephemeral, and fleeting, but so long as David didn’t move, he was forever. And he knew then, as he watched the stream run by him, that life and time could pass him in much the same way—casually, without effort. He hated that thought, that things could happen so easily, and in such a way that he could not affect. And subsequently, that he might die before he ever realised who he was. If fate and nature decided to intervene, then it was better that he forge ahead, and march with unbowed pride and specificity into the uncertain future. He would face his trials without flinching.

David considered all of his options very carefully. This betrayal was a set back, to be sure, hurtful even, when he had come without realising to trust both Ron and Harry. But there was nothing to say he had to comply with their every wish, and obey their every demand, not now that he knew they hadn’t seen problem in neglecting to tell him the truth of their endeavour. David was not bound to them. Or this Hermione woman, who was no doubt just as criminal as they were. He would play his part, he would play it well. There could be no guilt, after all, in fooling those who had fooled him. But, when he met the grand duchess he would come clean. If she recognised him, that would be fantastic, and he would be reunited with someone who had known him before the orphanage. If she didn’t, he saw no reason to maintain the ruse.

Even if Harry or Ron wanted him to. Especially if Harry of Ron wanted him to.

Cicadas chirped amidst the swaying reeds, a collection of tad-poles swam in unison by the edge of the shore, and songbirds chirped sweet melodies from the nests they had built so painstakingly in the cold months. They all had homes, David was determined to find his. Even if it turned out he wasn’t a Malfoy, he still needed to get to Paris. The medallion he had always known was important had been leading him there since the beginning. He stood carefully, and walked back down the path that would take him to Harry, Ron, and his future.

  
**Interlude : Harry’s Perspective**

Harry was nervous. There was no denying. For a brief moment, he had thought they had lost David entirely. But no, David had returned, face stony and more careful than it had been since they had met, but he had returned, and that was all that mattered to Harry. They had paused briefly in town to change into cleaner clothes, so as not to affront the ladies they would meet later with the state of their travel wear. None of them owned particularly decadent suits, but they had cleaned up at least, and Ron had made a particular effort. Now, they had finally reached Hermione’s house, and despite Harry’s own wishes, butterflies, or killer moths, seemed to have determined themselves to raze his stomach with anxiety. This was the culmination of a years plotting. If Hermione could not get them in, then the game was up, the show was over, the scheme had failed to launch.

Taking a deep breath, he channeled some of the strength and bravery he knew his parents must have had in spades, before knocking on the door.

Just Harry’s luck, Pansy Parkinson answered. She was as grotesque as usual, dressed in a loose, silky garment that hung off her thin body like a sack. That was the fashion, he supposed, but he did not have to like it. A decadent conglomeration of stones shone at her throat and earlobes. Her cropped black hair shone as dark as engine grease, and her crimson lips were tilted in such a way as to suggest that she knew things about him that he didn’t. Harry doubted it, over the years he had heard the woman utter more gossipy shit than anything even remotely sensible. A lot of men found her beautiful, Harry knew, but to him, she had always been unsettling. He reminded himself not to underestimate her, she'd defeated him before, after all, and it wouldn't do to fall into the trap of forgetting she possessed a brain, even though to his mind she used it infrequently.

“Potter, darling,” she smirked, before turning her gaze to Ron, and then David. “And friends, how exciting.”

Pansy extended a gloved hand to take their coats. Which was polite, and very annoying. Harry tried his best not to say anything churlish. When Hermione had said she had lady friends staying, he had assumed she meant Ginny and Luna, who were pleasant, and didn’t purposely make their eyebrows so dark, pointy, and superior.

They were led into the parlour room, where he and David were forced to watch on as Hermione and Ron circled each other with pink cheeks, before settling down and greeting people calmly.

Hermione raised a skeptical brow in his direction when David introduced himself as Draco, but Harry simply nodded at her to affirm, and then tuned back into his own conversation. Harry was happy to be reunited with Ginny, who was Ron’s younger sister and a dear friend. Ron was less pleased, and made sure to swear Ginny to secrecy about their visit, lest Molly make the journey from Toulouse to Paris to box his ears in for going so long without writing.

They ate afternoon tea on the back terrace, where Ron and Hermione engaged in subtle flirtations that the rest of them tried their very best to ignore. Ginny was set upon rehearsing some of the cries she had prepared for the protest, Pansy sat elegantly in a wicker chair as she embroidered their sashes and made sarcastic comments where she thought they might be appreciated.

Harry did not appreciate them. Though David apparently did, as he frequently snickered or replied in much the same tone. Disturbed, Harry left them and began to memorise some of the placards Ginny had given him. There would be a demonstration, later that evening in the city. Hermione, who was something of a feminist leader, had procured a choice selection of public speakers to advance their cause and light a fire under the belly of the people. Signs, slogans, badges, and other tools had all been prepared to assist in the advancement of the women’s liberation movement. Though on this night, their ultimate goal was to raise awareness as to why women should be given the right to vote. They'd been protesting publicly since 1903, but Hermione had high hopes that this, the nineteenth year of such protests, might bring results.

Harry knew that Hermione anticipated government interference. Police would, without a doubt, be close at hand and ready to make arrests. She’d wanted Harry, Ron and some other male supporters she knew to come, so they might help show that the advancement of the feminine would not emasculate men, and perhaps fend of some of the close-minded males she knew would attack them for even suggesting that women might be worthy of consideration.

Harry doubted he would be very much help. Too many men in Paris despised the suffragettes. Nevertheless, Hermione was one of his best friends, and she was heading a cause he believed in with the whole of his being. He would be there.

But first, they needed to have an interview.

 

“Harry,” said Hermione sensibly. “I love you very much, but it simply can’t be done, the grand duchess is tired, you have no idea the heart-ache she's faced with this.”

Since eating, they all had retired back to the parlous room, and sprawled out amidst the various chairs. Hermione had seated herself by the window, and was staring out of it with a pursed lip.

“Hermione,” he replied winningly, before standing and pacing the room. “It is because you are my friend that I wouldn’t present you with a fraud.”

Hermione, who was usually very polite, snorted. “Harry, you once tried to sell me a forgery of Monet’s _Bridge Over A Pond_. I don’t doubt your friendship, or your intentions, but I do doubt your capacity to avoid the temptation of a scheme. When you invited yourself to my home after Andromeda’s announcement I suspected what was to come, because I know you well, and I knew that the situation would appeal to your sense of adventure and your desire to meet challenges. But I won’t betray another friend for your sake. Draco, or whatever his name is, will just have to be content with the life he has.” she turned to look at Harry directly. “And you shall have to content yourself with less personal plots. I have plenty of things to occupy you with, if you’re bored.”

“I’m not bored, Hermione.” he plead. “I’m reformed.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Pansy chuckled in a dry, unnecessary fashion.

Harry ignored Pansy. He and Hermione had played this game before. Harry knew she enjoyed it as much as he did, even if she liked to pretend she was above such childish antics.

“I think you’re bored,” Hermione insisted. “I don’t know why you refuse to take some of the jobs I’ve offered you over the years.” 

Because they were too simple, Harry thought to himself, she underestimated his abilities because so often people disappointed her by being stupid or ignorant. The basic espionage and petty thefts that Hermione needed sometimes to advance her causes didn’t pose enough of a risk for him. And Harry didn’t believe that something could be worthwhile if there was no risk involved. He refused to be like some of those men, who could pick one lock, and upon discovering how talented they were at it, proceeded to pick the same lock, over and over again, instead of seeking out newer and more difficult feats, or at least more complicated locks.

“Please, Hermione.” he said. “Just an interview. If he’s any good, you take us out for drinks. If he’s crap, then hang him.”

“Excuse me,” said David loudly. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Potter. I am right here.”

He hadn’t meant to offend David, and he didn’t think he had, but Hermione required a certain tone from him, if she were to be wheedled into anything. In the vast majority of cases, she indulged him, the forgery of Monet’s _Bridge Over A Pond_ that hung over the fireplace was a testament to that fact.

And in any case, Harry wasn’t the only one who liked to be challenged. “If you can pick a single flaw in Draco,” he said confidently. “Then I shall never try to swindle you again.”

Hermione looked at him, as though assessing the sincerity of that statement and finding it lacking. Of course, Harry would never truly cease trying to swindle Hermione. It was the best way to practice at his craft. After all, if he could fool Hermione he could fool anyone.

“Alright,” she agreed. “But I’d like a proper wager; no flaws, and we’ll go for drinks later, on me. But, if there is even one single statement out of line with all that I know and the answers Andromeda has given me, then we’ll still go for drinks, but on your dollar. _D’accor?”_

“It’s a deal.” Harry confirmed, laying a kiss on her hand that he suspected Ron would get him back for later. “So long as Draco is up for it?”

David nodded solemnly, and the questions began.

The first round went well. Of course, Hermione had not started with difficult questions, and so David answered them correctly. Harry was glad he did not have a studied air about him, anyone else who’d learned the answers only days ago might have had an inauthentic manner, but David spoke as though he truly remembered holidays on sailing boats, and Faberge eggs, and birthday celebrations that lasted for weeks.

He didn’t miss a beat. Hermione asked him about his genealogy, his values, and even his favourite colour. Not once did David falter, not once did he give away that he might be lying. Harry almost rubbed his hands with glee, even Ron was impressed.

But then of course, Hermione smiled at Harry sharply. Too sharply. Before asking David the killer question, the one that Harry knew would end it all, because they hadn’t thought to prepare for it.

“How did you get away?” she said. “And where did you go?”

David got a blank look in his eye, and Harry groaned internally. All that work, all that planning, and once again, Hermione had foiled him at the last moment, caught him out with a question so basic and so obvious that Harry began to consider retirement. He would have interrupted, the silence was growing too long and too expectant. But then David began to speak. His eyes had taken on a faraway gleam, and his face was void of any expression. Harry watched on, entranced.

“There is a dream I have sometimes,” David said. “I’m running through a passage, and people jostle me in the dark. It’s difficult to see, and difficult to gain any sense of my own direction or surroundings. But then, it all disappears, and instead of being cramped, I’m cold. I keep running, I pass trees, and I pass rocks, and I pass snow. Someone is chasing me, but I don’t know who. A demon grasps my throat, and holds me against a wall, I thrash, and scream, and struggle. But it’s for nothing. The demon won’t let go. I close my eyes, and prepare to die. But then… there’s a boy. He’s got green eyes that glow like jewels, and he banishes the demon. I-I-It’s all very fast. I’m running again. For the longest time it’s quiet, but then I see a crow, who I know is my friend. It latches onto my coat and we fly to safety.”

David, who had closed his eyes sometime in the midst of his speech, opened them slowly. Harry couldn’t take his eyes away. He couldn’t even fathom what David had just said, and what it might mean. Hermione and Ron looked impressed, Pansy looked disinterested, and Ginny was watching David with a crease between her brows.

Harry leaned against the wall carefully, and prayed no one could sense the irrevocable wave of change that had just shocked it’s way to his very core. His perception of every event that had passed since he met David stripped itself away and Harry found himself born back to essentials. David was Draco. The words were on repeat. David was Draco. David was Draco. But how could it be possible?

It wasn’t possible. And yet. No one but the lost prince could have known about the events that had occurred that night. When Harry had been rushed with the other staff out the service passage, when Harry and his twice damned curiosity had spotted a Malfoy head running through the woods, and followed it, and when Harry had come to that same Malfoy’s defence against a predator.

Harry wanted to laugh. The whole situation was hysterical. He’d set out to do something mildly malicious, to repay the debt owed him for his parents who’d been killed. And instead, out of the thousands of phoney princes and lying lords that had come to him for a part of the trick, he’d selected the one man who was peddling the truth without knowing it. Or maybe, Harry mused, narrowing his eyes, David did know, and this was all apart of some other, more complex scheme.

But no, Harry dismissed that idea quickly. Davids’ anguish had been real. This was a man who didn’t know who his family was, even if he did seem to value the idea of family almost obsessively before anything else. 

“Well,” said Hermione, tone impressed. “I guess I owe you all a drink.”

Ron hollered loudly, but for some reason, the victory seemed less sweet to Harry. He gave Hermione a strained smile before excusing himself. He had a lot to think about.

  
**Tart With A Heart**

David was excited. Pansy Parkinson, who had quickly proven herself one of the most sophisticated and entertaining people David had ever met, was taking them shopping for the afternoon. He had been worried at first, at his having no money. But Pansy had assured him that she was fabulously wealthy, and readily able to gain access to Harry’s funds anyhow. David, who realised he had a wonderful opportunity for the sophisticated revenge he'd envisioned earlier, agreed.

Harry was still sulking in the bathroom, which David thought was very immature. If he had not wanted David to go off script, he should have provided answers to all the questions. When he said as much to Pansy she replied that it ‘didn’t matter, so long as ‘Potter was out of the way while they pillaged his trunk'.

Pansy picked the lock with a hairpin and the nib of a quill while David took on the dual tasks of watching on in admiration and standing guard. It popped open with a series of clicks, David rushed over to peer at the contents. There was an unfolded ball of clothes, which Pansy quickly threw to the side in disinterest, a large pile of documents and newspaper clippings, which Pansy snorted at, and a photo album made of leather, which Pansy pulled out.

“Bingo,” she said. “He’s very predictable, once you get to know him.”

The album contained personal images of who David assumed to be Harry’s parents. Several black and white prints filled the pages, silhouettes, and articles that mentioned their names. There were more childhood pictures of James, and David supposed it must have been because of his station. Pansy tugged the pages of the book harshly apart, and David who liked the idea of revenge but not destroying someone’s memories was about to shout, when the spine split neatly down the middle and several ready-made cheques fell out of a secret envelope between the pages.

“Here we go,” said Pansy gathering up the cheques. “Did you know," she added in a sweetly mocking voice, "that it turns out our shopping trip is going to be all expenses paid?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” said David, worried. 

What if Harry needed the money for something important?

Pansy laughed. “Darling,” she said. “If I know Potter as well as I think I do, then I know you deserve it. Cheap bastard is richer than God, but I’m willing to bet my pantyhose he dragged you all the way over the European countryside aboard the absolute cheapest, nastiest transportation he could find.”

“Well…” said David, not exactly sure.

“Go on,” said Pansy, “Deny it. He probably made you walk most of the way, when he easily could have gotten a cab.”

They had walked a very long way. “Is he really that rich?” David asked skeptically.

“Yes,” said Pansy. “He’s a decent con-man, after all. And only a year ago he came into a fortune. I keep tabs on these things, you understand, for my own benefit. Never does hurt to assess the prospects, though I don't really think I'm Potter's type. We'd drive each other mad. In any case, darling, it goes like this, Grandaddy Potter forgot to strike his unclean, good-for-nothing only grand-child from the will, and so Harry-boy inherited the lot, though rumour has it he donated to as many liberal causes as he could, just to really see them roll in their graves.”

“Why does he live the way he does?” David asked curiously, unfolding his arms. “When I met him, he was living in the seediest place imaginable.”

“Who would know the twisted routes Potter’s mind takes? In any case, it doesn’t matter. If I steal from Potter now, there’s no doubt he’ll steal something from me later on. It all equals out in the end. Come, darling. We’ll have fun.”

David considered what she had said for a moment. “Hold on,” he replied. “Does that mean that you’re a con too?”

Pansy chuckled drolly. “Why do you think Potter's based himself all the way over in Russia?” she said with a wink. “The Parisian market has been well and truly cornered.”

David looked at the jewels that hung on Pansy’s neck like fruits, and his eyes widened in new understanding.

  
They didn’t make it out the door before Harry realised what had happened. A shocked below came from the upstairs room and Pansy and David were forced to sit through a lecture from Hermione. In the end, Harry did not swear revenge, and he told them later that he considered a one-sided discussion with Miss Granger about the morality of theft was sufficient punishment. He did not even make them return all of the cheques, Pansy had insisted that David ought to have some new suits for all the trouble he’d gone to travelling with them, and surprisingly, Harry had agreed. Thus decided, it became a group affair.

“This is all so well timed,” Hermione said as they strolled by Gare de Lyon Train Station. “I really couldn’t have planned it better if I’d known in advance. We’ll do the shops for the next three to four hours. By that time it will be five o clock, and all of the ministers will have finished their meeting and the rally can begin as they exit the government house for the day. After that, if we avoid arrest, I’ll make good on my promise and we will visit the best bar in Paris,  _oui?"_

Oui. They were all in agreement. For perhaps the first time in his life that he could remember, David spent money frivolously. He purchased a fashionable suit made of pink linen, and couldn’t help but shiver as he enjoyed the fine fabric against his skin. So much better than the worn cotton was used to. He told himself sternly not to get used to it, if he got too attached and then spent the rest of his life lamenting about thread counts, it would be a damn shame. He decided then and there that if he couldn’t find his family he would devote himself to the nebulous earning of money, so that he might buy himself fashionable suits to wear all of the time.

Pansy bought a fabulous boa scarf, Ron bought Hermione some cheap flowers from a vendor, Ginny bought some sly grog from underneath a jewellers counter when she thought no one was watching, and even Harry invested in an elegant tie pin and a fancy new hat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having spent an indecent amount of money between them, the group retired to a small artisan cafe in high spirits. Their conversation soared and laughter was frequent. David had ever had so much fun with people his own age. In particular, he found his fondness growing for Pansy Parkinson. They had a compatible sense of humour, and David found it increasingly amusing to watch Harry eye them with irritation every time they made a joke.

Soon, as in most conversations shared by young adults, the topic of romance came up. Hermione and Ron both became very awkward, and Ginny made sure to poke fun at them several times to everybody else's amusement.

“What about you, Draco, darling,” Pansy inquired. “Handsome men like you are always snatched up quickly.” she looked at Harry while she said this, but he did not react.

“I don’t have a sweetheart,” David replied honestly.

“We’ll have to change that,” said Pansy. “You’re in Paris, city of love and all that rot. And, darling, if I may say so, whoever picked that suit out for you has impeccable taste. All of the pretty young things will be beside themselves.”

David couldn’t stop himself from grinning. It was nice to know that people might think he was attractive. He always had had a streak of vanity, and he wouldn’t deny that having it stroked was a pleasant experience.

Harry, who was sipping an iced tea very demurely, looked at his watch and said. “The pretty young things shall have to wait until later, if I’m not mistaken, we have a rally to attend.” 

Hermione’s eyes brightened immediately, and Ron, as if inspired by her enthusiasm, suddenly sat a little taller. Hermione beckoned them all closer, and David leaned in to listen to her whispered words.

“We’re best united. Ron and I will stay together, Draco and Harry will stay together, and Pansy and Ginny, you both will stay together. If we all lose track of each other, stay with your partner. After the rally, we will meet at the Royal Snitch Jazz Club on Bourbon Street. Do you all know how to get there?”

Everyone nodded or vocalised assent bar David. But Harry leant over and whispered in his ear. “Don’t worry, it won’t be so bad as Hermione’s making out. We’ll stick together.”

And they did. The next hour was spent very productively, as they alternated between listening to the impassioned public speakers Hermione had organised to stand up, and chanting slogans at the government building. The police drove past several times, but as nothing specifically illegal had happened yet, they were at a loss as to what they could do. Soon enough, they got permission to disband the crowd on claims of disturbance, but the ladies and gentlemen who’d gathered to have their piece heard weren’t so cowed as that. David laughed, and kept up Hermione’s call as the crowd huddled tight and prevented police from breaking through their ranks. Harry’s left arm gripped his shoulder tightly, and his right was hoisting a placard high in the air. The shouts and chants were so loud David’s ears were ringing, but he kept it up.

There was no way the ministers could leave without listening. The moment the gate had opened, the crowd had converged to create a very inconvenient blockage.

“Freedom!” Hermione shouted from the front of the crowd. “Freedom for women, who have been daughters, wives, and mothers before they have been human. Freedom for the abused, the enslaved, the oppressed. Ladies with twice the smarts and half the rights, now is your time, to step up and stand forward. We deserve a chance to cast our votes the same as any man. It’s our right. We are half the human race, and the time has come to demand what has been withheld from us. Freedom!”

She was significantly taller than the rest of them, as she had asked Ron and another fellow in attendance if they would mind her sitting on their shoulders. From there, she could see and manage the crowd. David kept an eye on her as he continued the shout. If he squinted, he could see all of the ministers in their black robes walking frantically back and forth across the yard in frustration, one of the younger, more spritely ones had tried climbing the fence, but an elderly woman who had joined their party from the street had rapped him on the knuckles with her umbrella so hard that he lost his grip and fell back on his arse.

Suddenly, the air was pierced by the shrill shriek of sirens. David looked to Hermione for direction.

Hermione looked about wildly, before nodding, seemingly to herself. “Disband!” she ordered.

And then there really was chaos. He could feel as Harry kept a fierce grip on his hand while people ran about them frantically. The air was filled with the sound of ladies screaming, for the most part, the only people who came to the rallies were single women.

“This way,” shouted Harry, his eyes were bright, and his expression had adopted that same intense focus that David had seen when he had been planning their trip and running on the roof of the train.

It was darker then, but as they jogged down a narrow alley, it was difficult to miss the sound of boots hitting the cobbles behind them.

“Is that the police?” David asked as quietly as he could while they ran.

“I can’t be certain,” said Harry. “We’re buggered if we’re caught though. No papers or anything.”

“Shit,” David swore.

“In here,” Harry hissed suddenly as they rounded a corner.

Someone had hung a green and purple wreath on their door. It was the secret sign that they were welcome. The ran in and locked it behind them, before creeping through the hall and out the back. They passed a family of four on their way through, the mother spotted their badges and grinned.

“Take the first left, and then left again. It’ll spit you back out on the main street. God bless you, gentlemen.”

“God bless _you!_ ” replied David.

Harry tugged him out the back door just as they heard a man’s voice cry “Police! Let us in!”

They made it part way down the street before David made them stop.  

“What is it?” Harry asked.

David unhooked his badge and slipped it inside his pocket. They didn’t need the extra risk of identification when they had no papers saying they were even allowed in France.

“Oh, of course.” Harry removed his as well, and balled up his sash before slipping it in his bag.

And thus, they strolled very casually to the Royal Snitch like the respectable young men they were. If David made sure to hang his ‘votes for women’ sash over the sign that marked out the parliament house, then no one had to know but Harry, who applauded him softly before offering his arm. They arrived at the club full of the merriment and revolution particular to youth.

  
Inside, David was shocked. He’d never been to a club before and had nothing in his memory to compare to the sensual writhing of young bodies that filled the joint. All around him were women in dresses short as sin, he could see knees, god forbid, _everywhere_. A band said to be from New Orleans were owning the stage, their music was loud and real and filled crevices in David’s heart he hadn’t known needed filling. Harry led him to the back of the club, where Hermione and the others had claimed a booth by the stage. Ginny was aiming a sultry stare up at the bass player, who winked back saucily.

“Ginny,” Hermione scolded, gripping the stem of her wine glass tightly. “That’s one mister Blaise Zabini, he’s got a terrible reputation for flirting, he’s a complete cad.”

“I don’t know, Hermione. He looks harmless to me, a real doll.”

Hermione harrumphed, but was soon distracted by Ron, who had embarked on a quest to see how many pretzels he could balance on his nose.

“This is embarrassing,” said Pansy. “Watching you two court is excruciating. Fuck or get married, I hardly care, so long as all this stops.”

She gestured in the general direction of their awkwardness. Ron’s ears had gone red again. Hermione was torn between a glare and a blush. The pretzels fell.

 

David wanted to dance. He'd been watching the other patrons long enough now to get jealous. Ron and Hermione had already disappeared into the crowd, and he suspected that Harry and Ginny were about to follow. 

“Miss Parkinson,” he said, offering his arm. “I find myself wondering what it might be like to dance in the french style, but I know I’d need a very experienced tutor.”

She smiled slowly, and accepted the arm. “It’d be my pleasure,” she said. “See you later, Potter, Gin.”

Harry saluted them half-heartedly, before offering his arm to Ginny.

David soon found he had a natural talent for jazz dancing, Pansy taught him several of the more popular moves, which included something called the Charleston, and another called the Black Bottom. After that, they performed a jaunty fox-trot in the middle of the dance floor that had several nearby couples cat-calling them.

“Don’t look now,” said Pansy. “But there’s a very delectable specimen eyeing you from across the seating area. Blue suit, striped.”

They twirled, and David peered surreptitiously.

“Not my type,” David murmured.

“No, I suppose not.” Pansy replied.

The music went on, and David was passed around the room from lady to lady, he danced once with Hermione, and twice with Ginny. Every now and then he took pause for air and champagne and some of the herbal cigarettes that Pansy favoured. The world was big, and colourful, and so full of sound. He moved to it. He made love to it. Best of all, he got drunk to it. He’d never been drunk before, not properly. And now he couldn’t help but wonder why, it was an excellent feeling, made of lightness and complete belonging. David was glowing, and sweating, and there was so much perfume cloying at his skin. It was like self-actualisation in the middle of the club.

He looked up at the haphazard collection of crystal chandeliers that decorated the room. They were so old, and imperial, and he wondered why they weren’t evenly spaced, they should have been evenly spaced. Every proper ballroom hung their chandeliers with even spaces. He laughed. This wasn’t a ballroom! Why had he thought that for a moment? and was that Ginny on that stage?

It was.

He moved closer, waltzing an enthusiastic young man through a series of movement until they were closer to the stage. Somehow, she must have convinced the bassist that she was a good enough player to join in. Indeed, David had barely noticed a difference in the quality of the music, though, he was utterly intoxicated and half wondering if his judgement might be impaired as a result. Ginny was sitting on Zabini’s lap, strumming his guitar. He looked as though he’d won the lottery.

One day, David hoped to win the lottery. If he had a lot, a lot, a lot of money, he would buy a greyhound. He liked dogs. He always felt so bad when they were injured. It was a terrible thing to hurt an animal.

He could feel eyes on him, and he turned. Harry was at the bar. Not looking at him though, chatting with the barman, who was tall and handsome. Why had he thought someone was watching him? Oh, Pansy was watching him. She walked towards him with a grin. And wasn’t that sickening, her lips were so red.

“Come on, outside.” she said. “You should’ve told me you’d never drunk before, I wouldnt’ve loaded you up even half so much. Come on, prince of Russia. Let’s go. It’s alright.”

The world was spinning rather a bit more than David liked. Pansy pulled him through a clutch of people, and then very suddenly, in no time at all, they were out the back of the bar on a small balcony. The air was cold and sweet. He could see the Eiffel tower in the distance.

“There, there,” said Pansy. “It’s alright, my darling. Though I will murder you if you ruin that suit.”

Actually, there were a lot of people down on the street. So many colourful people. He used to know colourful people. They weren’t all that grand. Those people down on the street thought they were so fancy, but David knew better. So did Draco. Draco had spent so much time with colourful people who were less fancy than they seemed. But that made no sense. He didn’t know Draco.

“That’s it,” Pansy cooed. “All over the railing, dear.”

David leant over a bit.

“It’s a pretty thing, the moon,” he said in wondering tones as he stared with limpid eyes up at the waxy crescent grin of _la lune_. He smiled softly, before enthusiastically vomiting down the timeless streets of Paris.

 

**Harry : Again**

“Have you thought any more about what I told you?” Harry asked.

He and Hermione had returned to the booth after growing tired of the bar, they needed to wait for the other to return anyway, before they could leave safely.

“I’m very drunk,” said Hermione. “Which means that my inhibitions are low and my capacity to make pragmatic decisions has been compromised.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Harry coaxed. “You’re just as clever as always.”

“Harry James Potter!” Hermione shrieked, and Harry knew for sure she was drunk, because she would never have spoken with that many decibels had she not been.

“You’re trying to manipulate me!” 

“For once,” said Harry. “It’s not a trick. It was to begin with, I’ll admit that much… but now I really think that there could be something to it. That story he told today, it’s exactly like what happened. Of course, I always thought that the real prince was killed in a storm or by some drunkard rebel, but if David know that story, then the possibility…”

“I’m a fool,” Hermione sighed.

“Why?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“Because I believe you.” she replied simply. “And this afternoon when I was doubting myself, I studied a photograph and compared their features. It’s too uncanny.”

“Do you really think so?” Harry asked, for a moment, the game slipped away, and he spoke to Hermione the way they did when neither of them were scheming, the way best friends did.

She wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “I think there’s a chance.”

“Will you help me find out?” he asked.

For a moment, Hermione dithered. “Not for the reasons you think I will,” she said. “But yes, I think David, or Draco, deserves to find some truth.”

Harry, who didn’t usually notice the cold, shivered. For the first time, he wondered if he was playing with ghosts that were best left buried. But he didn’t believe in ghosts, only daring, and even if passing David off as Draco wasn’t the great deception he had planned, returning the true prince to his family was still a gutsy task, and at the end of the day, Harry defined his life by gutsy tasks. He would finish this quest. Hermione was right, David deserved it.

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school is back! sorry for the slow update!
> 
> same references as usual, those books are more helpful than even I could have anticipated.
> 
> also it's probably weird that the art style isn't consistent, but i've only just started with doing digital art so it's all experimentation i guess. green is definitely ron's colour tho, trying to have a minimal colour pallet that doesn't clash with his hair is pain :)


	5. Chapter 5

**— PART FIVE —**

_**HOME, LOVE, FAMILY** _

**The Russian Ballet I**

_The Russian Ballet is the most respected troupe of professional dancers in the world. Their style and grace are unparalleled. It is one thing to master a technique, and quite another, to turn that technique into art._

David would never drink again. As he bathed in the cool tub Pansy had made Harry prepare for him, he tried not to acknowledge the migraine which threatened, at any point, to split his skull in half.

Hermione had offered him some new-fangled tonic, designed by scientists to dull the effects of pain, but David had refused her. He wasn’t sure that he could trust anything that came out of a bottle anymore. Maxime had never put much stock in modern remedies, an ideology she had seen instilled in her wards, and that David supported whole-heartedly.

“Listen to Maxime,” David could remember her saying. “If eet didn’t come from nature, eet eez not good for your body.”

David found himself wishing he had taken her words more to heart, because if he had, he would not be suffering. The bath had helped some, and he’d had the rightness of mind to drink two cups of strong black coffee when he finally woke up.

It was difficult to remember the night before without wanting to curl into a ball and die of shame, he knew that Pansy Parkinson had not judged him, and yet he wished he could have held his liquor with a little more decorum. Rather than retching from a balcony. He groaned in dismay. The memory would haunt him for the rest of his life, he vowed never to try and impress someone again.

He heard footsteps mount the stairs, and soon there came a knock at his door.

“David?” called Harry, his voice muffled. “Are you drowned?”

“Not yet.” David said.

“You need to start getting ready for the ballet.” Harry said.

David sat up quickly, and immediately regretted it. Water sloshed violently against the sides of the tub, his brain did something similarly unfortunate against the walls of his skull. For a moment, David wondered if Hermione’s tonic wouldn’t be so bad after all. “Now?” he said.

“Yes, now.”

“But it’s too early, I don’t want to crease my suit.”

“David,” said Harry, tone dry. “It’s five o clock.”

David lay back again, submerging the bottom half of his head so that his ears blocked. Sound became a warped, funny thing. He tapped the bottom of the tub to a random tune, and there was a tinny echo through the water.

He might have heard Harry cursing him through the door, but he couldn’t be sure. He’d get out when it pleased him.

  
When it pleased him, turned out to be another hour later. Subsequently, he emerged from the bathroom to find Harry pacing with some agitation. A large, rectangular box sat on the bed. It was white, wrapped in a satin, forget-me-not bow.

“I don’t see why we have to go to the ballet,” said David. “Don’t you think it’s incredibly gauche? Going to see the Russians, when you are yourself, a Russian?”

“No,” said Harry stubbornly. “I think it will be jolly. I love dancing.”

David eyed him suspiciously. “Is that a joke?”

“Maybe,” Harry cracked a pearly smile, though it was gone in an instant. He checked his watch. “Now, hurry up.”

 

**Voldemort and Wormtail**

Voldemort was sulking. If he were aware that his behaviour might be termed such, he would have denied it to his dying day. But there could be no escaping it, Voldemort was indeed, despite his best efforts, sulking up a storm.

“It should have worked,” he complained. “Why didn’t it work?”

“Well,” explained Wormtail, helpfully. “It didn’t work because it wasn’t necessarily a well thought out plan. He could have woken at any moment, sir. I mean, really. Any moment.”

Voldemort shot him a red glare. His dismembered fingers twitched vexedly from various corners of the limbo.

“We need to do something else, something… more.” he said, beginning to pace. His dark robes flowed behind him, majestically. The souls screamed loudly as he passed, in some bizarre iteration of a Mexican wave.

Wormtail shook his furry head sadly, as he did so, the reliquary caught in the eery light. Voldemort turned to look at it, frowned for a moment, and then said with total conviction, “I have a plan.”

Oh dear, thought Wormtail.

   
**The Russian Ballet II**

Harry had called a cab. Now, the five of them were squeezed, tight as sardines, into the back of it. By some stroke of terrible, hateful, fortune. Harry found himself crammed between the door and Pansy. He had spent the past five minutes enduring spiteful, whispered remarks. Usually, they were about him. And usually, they were funny or true, but Harry refused to acknowledge that.

He wished, that David, or Draco now, he reminded himself, would come downstairs so they could leave. It wouldn’t do to be late. Not when Harry needed to seize a moment.

Hermione had told him that the Grand Duchess would be in attendance. Dav—Draco, did not know. Yet. Yet. Harry would tell him, soon enough. It was important, and, Harry reminded himself, Draco deserved to be returned to the family that he had been flung from, all those years ago.

Harry did not like the Malfoy’s, he never would. And, in particular, he despised the Imperial system that had empowered them, and other like them. But, he had gotten to know Draco, on a personal level. Had began to consider them friends, even.

He did not want Draco to suffer. The plan had to go off, without a hitch. So that Draco could be returned to his charmed life, and Harry could exit that life as seamlessly as he had arrived in it, though admittedly, with a million more euros.

“Bout time!” Ron shouted, and even the cab driver sighed in relief, as Draco walked down the front steps.

His white-gold Malfoy hair shone, and he looked very, effortlessly cool in the ocean blue suit Harry had left out for him. He’d seen it in the window. Thought it was fashionable, was immediately reminded of Draco. As he’d chatted with the salesman, he had told himself that it was a practical thing to do, that Draco needed an evening suit anyway. The pink one was not suitable for the ballet. Etcetera, etcetera.

Now, as something within him went molten and warm, he suspected that he had been lying to himself. For a moment, taking Draco in, consuming him with a wide, sloppy gaze, it was all very simple, a knot was undone, a crease smoothed, a kink ironed out, somewhere deep in his soul, there came a softening. A second later, Harry caught himself. And remembered.

He could not let Draco dazzle him, not anymore. It was more important that he seize the right moment. I will seize the right moment, Harry repeated to himself mentally.

Draco slid into the cab with unstudied grace.

“Finally,” said Hermione. “Drive, please.”

Harry carefully adjusted his sleeves. For some reason, he always felt itchy dressed in formal, evening wear. He looked out the window at the streets, a beautiful oily mess of blue and yellow. Dark buildings, and glowy street lamps.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting long.” said Draco, fastening his seatbelt.

Hermione leaned over Draco, and tugged, hard. The door clicked shut, and with a guttural rumble, the cab started.

Twenty minutes later, they had arrived. The theatre was large and imposing, a relic even. It reminded Harry of before the war, when people had been obsessed with opulence, and the architecture had mirrored that obsession.

Only a certain type of person had been allowed to enter this theatre then. Now, if you could afford a ticket, and were timely enough, then any seat could be yours. Harry, who quite liked imagining the ghosts of dead royalty looking down at him with disgust, had booked balcony seats. It was a strategic manoeuvre too, Draco would have a good view of the show, and Harry would have a good view of the duchess. Hermione had said that they would be sitting in a balcony, on the other side of the theatre.

They were let through admission into a vast and gleaming lobby. The ceiling was high and gold. It was like standing in a sun. Draco’s hair shone as he looked around himself. Harry grinned to himself, enjoying Draco’s enjoyment. The crowd was very glamorous. Harry saw at least three movie stars and even an American, who was speaking very loudly in poorly accented French.

“This way,” he said , leading Draco towards an intimately carved doorway, which Harry knew from reading a map before arriving at the venue would lead them to their seats. Harry kept his head down as they walked, just in case any former ‘acquaintances’ recognised him. Draco’s white shoes gleamed against the red carpet.

“Here,” Harry said. “This is your seat.”

Draco sat down. Harry watched the way his fingers immediately ran the length of the arm rest, as though assessing their quality. It was an absent-minded gesture, one Harry could only imagine he must have had as a boy.

“Look at all of the people, Harry,” said Draco.

He was staring at them eagerly, drinking it all in.

Harry thought, I will never take him away from this, this is a style of life he was born to enjoy forever.

Harry shook his head, to clear his thoughts, he was being ridiculous. No one should grow accustomed to wealth, really. He was just being silly, easily distracted by a pretty face. He should have known better than to become so enamoured that he forgot his own values. Which where not in alignment with any sort of system that allowed a small portion of the population to live in opulence while the majority could barely survive on scraps.

But, said a small and immoral voice from the back of his mind, maybe it would be okay, just this once, to approve, when it would be the best life for someone he had come to like, no, not like, accept. As a friend. Or better, a colleague. A colleague he was still lying to by omission.

Harry glanced to the left and saw Hermione settling into her seat. A stately woman with dark eyes and hair sat beside her. She looked tired, but regal. Harry would not like to disappoint someone so proud, for the briefest of moments, he was glad that Draco was the real deal. Even Harry had to admit, that scamming good people was never so satisfying as scamming the stupid or cruel.

The lights dimmed. And Harry heard Ron and Pansy settle in the seats behind them. Draco reached over and clutched Harry’s arm tightly. “Ow,” said Harry.

“Sorry,” Draco said in a whisper, almost feverish with excitement. “This is my first time at the theatre.”

It wasn’t, not really. Harry could remember news article clippings that detailed how well the Malfoy family had enjoyed this show or that.

“How nice,” said Harry, with some discomfit, before making a shushing noise and turning his attention to the stage.

The curtains drew up, and the story truly began to unfold.

  
**Alive, baby!**

“Yes!” moaned Voldemort.

Wormtail tugged harder.

“Umph, I can feel it now, continue, minion.”

Wormtail’s resolve strengthened, and he pulled with a determination that he had not had before, creating a steady rhythm.

“Yes, yes, ye-e-e-sss!!”

With one final burst of energy, Wormtail poured all of his focus into one final tug, and the lid of the reliquary, which Voldemort had been holding still, finally came loose. The dark magic trapped inside immediately formed a cloud above Voldemort’s heart, before forming the shape of an arrowhead, and disappearing inside his body.

“Reunited,” said Voldemort, smirking. “At last,”

“Good to see you so rejuvenated, master,” said Wormtail, grovelling. “Better than a spa day, or even a whole-foods diet!”

“For the first time in years,” said Voldemort deeply, voice resounding through the cavern. “I am alive. Fully alive. And now,” he said, holding out a slender, semi-lifeless hand for Wormtail to scamper into. “Away. Tonight, a devil is raised.”

 

**Duchess**

The show was magnificent. Dancers whirled across the stage like spinning tops, their limbs taut, creating shapes and following the routine with mad precision. It looked effortless, though David knew that could not be possible.

The swan princess, who had been so lost, cheated by a mad man and betrayed by jealousy, fell to the ground, distraught. It was a terrible, tragic ending, thought David, upset. The dancers returned, filing onto the stage. The audience applauded them politely. And then Odette herself came to the forefront; and people stood up in admiration, their cries filled the air and bounced off the ceiling.

“She was my favourite,” David said to Harry, who looked sad. “Though I didn’t care for the ending, did you?”

“It’s a fitting ending,” said Harry slowly. “They never could have been together.”

David huffed. “Don’t be so cynical. Technique and structure hardly matter when love is on the line. Those two were made for each other. Nothing should have stood in their way.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment, before running a hand through his hair and standing.  
“Come, Draco. It’s time you were introduced to someone.”

Ron and Pansy were both shooting Harry bewildered looks.

“Draco?” David barely had time to exclaim. Harry took hold of his wrist and lead him from the balcony, leaving Ron and Pansy behind.

“We’ll meet you outside, later,” Harry told them, before shutting the door.

Outside, Harry took his hand.

“Harry—” David said.

“Yes?” said Harry.

“So much has happened. I know you are disappointed that we couldn’t meet with the grand duchess, but I just wanted to say—”

“Yes?” Harry asked.

David looked into his eyes, they were standing so close, and gazing so intently. “Well, I, just… Thanks. Thankyou. It’s been, a dream, really. I never would have made it to Paris without all of your help, or come to see this show without your friends. I’m really… grateful.”

Harry nodded. “You’re always welcome, David.” he said. “And, I—”

It was David’s turn. “Yes?” he asked, smirking. He felt anticipation rise in his blood like a homemade firecracker, simmering, ready to… ready to… something.

Harry chuckled, with dimples. “No matter what happens,” he said. “No matter what you come to think of me. I wish you the best. Always. The very, very best. Remember that… David.”

“Oh,” said David, the firecracker fizzed out, he took a step back and cleared his throat.

“Now,” said Harry, gripping his hand again. “We have to go.”

“Where?” David asked, letting himself be dragged.

Harry did not reply. They walked through another door and came into a hall. In the hall, they rounded another corner and came face to face with a guard. Harry slipped him a paper bill, and they passed through a wooden door into a small room with mahogany dressings. Their was a red curtain ahead. Voices wafted through, David recognised Hermione’s among them.

“Wait here,” said Harry, his eyes were more wild than David had ever seen them, but filled with a keen focus that told him not to argue, though he very much wanted to. “This is important. I will go in, and announce you properly,”

Harry walked through the curtain, and it drifted shut behind him with unsettling finality. David stepped forward, a hand outstretched. Then, he heard a surprised voice, and took pause. It was Hermione’s surprised voice. “Harry, I didn’t know we would be seeing you quite so soon.” she said, in a tone that implied that she had not wanted to.

Harry’s reply was muffled, something David just missed hearing.

Hermione spoke again. “The grand duchess and I were just discussing the dancing, very fine, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Very fine. But I have come to speak with the Grand Duchess about another, more serious matter, if I may?”

David stepped closer to the curtain, his ear almost pressed against the fabric. The grand duchess? David had thought that Harry had given up on those plans, when Hermione had rejected them. What was this, and why had he not been informed? David considered bursting through the curtain, and demanding an explanation, but then, he might never get one. If Harry felt that David had mishandled the situation, he might never tell David why he had gone ahead without any forewarning. It was impossible. And so, David was resigned to eavesdropping.

“Harry,” Hermione said. “Now is not a good time, the duchess and I were just—”

“Let him speak, dear.” said a stately voice that David inferred was the grand duchess. She sounded very refined.

“Right, er,” said Harry. “My name is Harry Potter, I have come to speak with you, because I have met your nephew. Draco Malfoy survived the February Revolution, in fact, he is here with me tonight.”

David stepped back, in shock. It was a bald-faced lie. Before, the plan had been that David would meet the duchess and ascertain if he were a familiar face. This was not what David had signed up for.

“Potter,” said the duchess, and it was as though there was a very bad taste on her tongue. “I have heard of you, of course. I will not speak with a man who held auditions to find a false Draco.”

David felt ill. Auditions? Why was this the first time he was hearing of them? He scolded himself harshly. He had known that Harry was involved in the underbelly of Russia. He had just hoped, foolishly, that Harry would never be so needlessly cruel with him. How naive.

“No!” Harry said. “The man I know, he’s real. He is the lost prince. Draco Malfoy is with me right now, he’s just outside!”

David felt paralysed. Why did Harry keep on with the lie, when he had been caught out? It was embarrassing.

“Young man,” said the duchess. “I have met enough Draco Malfoy’s to last me a lifetime. I am tired. I am so tired. It is shocking, how many people are willing to live in their lies. Leave us. And leave Paris too, it would do me good never to meet you again.”

“You have to believe me,” said Harry, palms together as if in prayer. “If you can’t be convinced with words, then just look at him, you will recognise his face.”

“No!” the duchess said. She had drawn in on herself, shoulders and back straight, head drawn up as though ready to battle. It was a protective posture. David recognised it.

“Harry, maybe you should—”

“Not now, Hermione.” Harry said rudely.

David couldn’t breathe. His hands were starting to sweat and shake, and something had curdled in him, the joy he had felt before, during the show, when he was looking at Harry, who he now knew to be a liar and a fraud worse and more cruel than he had ever fully comprehended. There was a subtle movement behind the curtain, which opened a crease. David peered through the slither of a crack, and was horrified to watch as Harry took a seat by the duchess.

“Your majesty,” he implored. “Please. I mean you no harm. I used to work in the palace. I was a kitchen hand.”

“Well,” said the duchess, putting a hand to her heart. “I have not heard that one before, I must say. But, I insist that you leave. Hermione?”

“Just, please, listen. He looks exactly alike. And the coincidences are too much.”

“Haven’t you been listening? I do not care, I simply do not care. I don’t care how you have fashioned this young man to look like him, sound like him, act like him. In the end, it never is him.”

“But this time, it is him!” said Harry loudly.

David wondered how they had not drawn an audience.

“Mister Potter, how much pain would you inflict on me? Are you so greedy as all that?”

“Just, LOOK!” Harry said.

Footsteps thundered back towards the curtain. David had only a moment to react. But it was enough. By the time Harry had pulled the curtain aside, David had escaped. The door swung behind him as he rushed down the hall.

“Merde,” he heard Harry curse.

David ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Through the startled hoards of people leaving the theatre, and out onto the street. A car had to swerve to avoid him, but David was hardly paying attention.

Eventually, he discovered a bus shelter. He curled up on the seat, and couldn’t stop the shudder that ran through his body.

He began to cry. It was an odd sort of cry, without tears or sound. His throat ached, and there was an ancient pain somewhere in his gut, a wound that had been inflicted the day he forgot his family. In that moment he didn’t think he would ever find his family. He would never have anyone.

David could hear Harry calling his name. He forced the sadness to evaporate. The time for crying was past, and now, he would rage. Harry would know his fury, Harry would know he had done wrong.

David stood, and stormed down the path towards Harry. He tapped him on the shoulder and glared hard as Harry turned to face David.

“So,” said David. “It was all a lie. You used me, and my dreams, to turn a profit.”

“No,” said Harry, he reached out a hand but David batted it away carelessly, like swatting a fly. “It may have began that way,” Harry said. “But that was before, before I knew.”

“Oh, stop!” David said, losing some of the cool he had been so determined to maintain. “From the very beginning, you lied. You lied for money, and for greed, and because you are a careless person. Maybe it was even revenge. I don’t know.”

“Listen to me. Draco. That’s who you are. When you spoke about the boy, in the forest. That memory was—”

“No, Potter. Stop. I do not care to hear about anything that I said, or remembered. You will leave me alone now, and if I ever hear of you tormenting that poor woman again, I will bring the French Constabulary down upon you like a plague of locusts, and you won’t see the sun for another twenty years.”

“Like you could,” Harry scoffed, “Without implicating yourself. You don’t even have any papers.”

“I would find a way,” David said solemnly. And he would.

Harry seemed to understand that, and he reverted back to his first tactic. Begging.

“Look, please. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Because you are the lost prince, and—”

David was so sick of being ignored and mislead and treated as though her were a pathetic imbecile. The fury rose, it coiled in his hand like a viper, and before he could second guess himself, he slapped Harry across the face as roundly as he could.

The impact resounded like a thunderclap. David’s handprint was a fleshy pink tattoo over Harry’s cheek.

Harry rubbed his jaw. His eyes were downcast. David sneered once, before turning on his heel, and walking towards Hermione, Ron, and Pansy. He would catch a lift with her, collect his things, and then find his own way.

If he was lucky, he would never see Harry again. He couldn’t even begin to believe how crushed he was by this newest disappointment. He should have known better. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been so stupid, and blind, and trusting, the wool wouldn’t have been so thoroughly over his eyes.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have become so wooed, or enamoured. Harry had showed him a glamorous life, full of excitement and belonging. Now, he knew it was just an act, designed meticulously to have David comply with his will. Well, it had worked, but never again. Hermione let him into the cab with a sad twist of the lips and a doe look in her troubled brown eyes. David spent the journey with his eyes closed. The way they had been, all along.

They didn’t speak. David listened to the rain, which sounded like a thousand fists hitting the canvas roof of the cab at once, The violence of it was soothing. David felt volatile.

 

**Harry**

His check stung something fierce. He watched Draco storm away with regret. This was his own fault, his own inability to follow the plan. He had been too hasty, and too desperate, and now, he had lost Draco the chance to be reunited with his family.

Harry could have kicked himself. He had failed to seize the moment. And now, he might never have a chance to try again. And Draco would hate him forever.

Not that it was of any consequence, he told himself sternly, what Draco thought of him. When this was all over, they would go their seperate ways. For good.

As Hermione and Draco drove away into the night, it began to rain. An icy droplet landed on Harry’s cheek, right under his eye. He did not flinch. He watched the yellow tail-lights disappear around a corner and wished that he had done something more.

He looked back over to the theatre. He would have to hail a cab. That was the only way he would get home at this hour. Harry crossed the road quickly, desirous to stand in a lit space, rather than the dark street corner he had been inhabiting. Then, he saw her. The grand duchess was being led down the stairs by her chauffeur, a young, jaunty looking chap in a green uniform.

He looked gullible.

And Harry had an idea.

Sudden as lightning, a plan was formed. Harry wondered if he had the nerve, or the daring. Then, he realised that he did not have time to wonder about anything, it was now, or it was never.

Quick as a flash he darted behind a stone column, and watched as the man helped the duchess into her seat. Harry waited for the right moment. When he heard the door shut with a snap, he leapt from his hiding place and into the drivers seat. The chauffeur barely had time to yell before Harry levelled the clutch and the accelerator, and the car shot down the road like a bullet.

Second gear, Harry thought, hearing the engine roar.

He could see the duchess in the back, clutching her stomach. He would only have a certain amount of time before the police were called.

Third gear. He swerved through the spindly cobble roads of Paris at break neck speed. They would need to arrive at Hermione’s before Hermione and Draco did. That way, the duchess would not be able to avoid looking at him. And then, Harry knew, there would be some recognition. Finally.

“Young man,” said the duchess sternly, and when Harry glanced at her in the rear-view, he could see her eyes lit in a blaze of regal fury. “Pull over, this instant.”

“No,” said Harry, stubborn as a mule. “You have to see. I’m sorry. But you have to.”

“This infernal scheme? Again? I thought I had warned you.”

Harry chuckled, and shifted to fourth gear. “You should put your seatbelt on, ma’am.”

Harry took a swift detour through a boulevard he knew to be shorter than the way most cab drivers would take. And sooner than he thought was possible, they arrived at Hermione’s townhouse.

Harry cut the engine, and jumped out of the car to help the duchess. She refused him, staunchly.

The street was dark, lit only by a few old fashioned gas lamps, manufactured in the nineties.

“This is Miss Grangers’ home.” said the duchess suspiciously.

“Yes,” said Harry. “She’s my friend.”

“Well,” said the duchess, smoothing her gown. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Wait here,” said Harry.

He fetched the spare key quickly, and opened the front door. The duchess was still eyeing him disdainfully, but she did as he said, and entered the house. It seemed that the familiar setting was reassuring to her. Harry thanked his lucky stars that she had not screamed.

They sat in the parlour for ten minutes in the most awkward, taut silence that Harry had ever endured.

“Draco will be back soon,” said Harry. “Then you can see for yourself.”

The duchess did not reply.

“I’ll, er, make some tea. I’m sorry about… all this.”

She turned a wary eye on him. “Are you?”

Harry gulped, and left the room. There was something unsettling in facing the duchess. She seemed both too young and too old at the same time. Her dark hair was streaked with grey.

Her face was wrinkled with happy creases, the sort one could only acquire by frequent smiles, and yet, her eyes were sad. She was a contradiction. Harry went to making the tea, and tried not to think about it.

He could hear Ginny moving about upstairs. He took a moment to pray she would not come down.

He navigated Hermione’s kitchen efficiently, allowing muscle memory to guide his movements. Soon enough, he had prepared a small tray of tea and lemon biscuits. he carried the tray out and offered it to the duchess.

“You didn’t lie about working in the service. That much I can tell by the way you carry a tray,” she said, accepting the tea but refusing the biscuits. “Though, it is difficult to ascertain if you gained that experience in the house of my family, or, on some other estate.”

“I wasn’t lying,” said Harry. “I worked for the Malfoy’s. I remember the balls, and the spring roasts, and how Cook would always stock more white chocolate than cacoa, because your sister liked to have us melt it in her and Draco’s milk. We all thought it was dreadful fussy, but there you are.”

“Another servant could have told you those things,” said the duchess, raising a long dark brow. She reminded him of Draco, when she did that. “I am not convinced.”

“You will be.” Harry said.

The duchess did not answer. She sipped her tea and stared out the window. The next few minutes were strained. Then, came the sound of a cab pulling in. “They’re here,” said Harry, who was grateful to be rescued from the duchess’s accusatory silence.

He could hear some people talking, and then the muffled roar of the motor zooming away. Then, a key in the lock.

Harry stood, and walked into the entry hall.

All four of his friends fell into the house at once, avoiding the rain that Harry had not noticed.

Harry shot Hermione a significant look, and with dawning horror, she pulled Ron and Pansy away into the dining room. Draco stared at him with disgust, but did not question their sudden exit.

“Potter,” he spat.

“I’m sorry.” said Harry.

“I can’t believe you,” said Draco, before laughing at himself. “I thought I had exorcised this anger when I hit you, but look, amazing how it all wells up, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again.

“No, you’re not. Stop lying to me. Tomorrow I will leave, we will never speak again. You make me sick.”

“It can’t be like that,” Harry said.

“It certainly can,” said Draco. “I don’t say these things for my own amusement.”

“But,”

“No.” said Draco sharply, his eyes were strained, and his lips tight and bloodless with fury. “It wasn’t a suggestion, Potter. It was a command. Never contact me again.”

Harry was about to speak, he was. But another voice interrupted.

“Well,” said the duchess. “You certainly sound like my Draco.”

Draco looked over at the parlour door anxiously, and then, recognising who had addressed him, turned back to scowl at Harry. “If you have hurt—”

“Young man,” she said. “I am not hurt, and I can speak for myself. Come into the light, please.”

Harry watched on, as Draco stepped forward, as though in a trance, until the hall lamp shone down on his face like a spotlight. It would have taken a particularly unobservant person, to miss the way the duchess gasped under her breath.

Draco was frowning slightly, looking into her face as though trying to fit together a puzzle.

Harry backed away slowly. Neither of them noticed. And that was how he wanted it. It was up to them now. He had done what he could. The best thing would be for them to talk it through, and see if it was possible that they could relearn each other.

Hermione was waiting for him, sitting at the dining table with an anxious expression.

He smiled at her, with more confidence than he felt.

“Oh, don’t try that with me, Harry Potter.” she said, standing, and putting her arms around him. “I know you better.”

“It’s fine, Hermione. This has all worked out very well, don’t you think?”

She stepped back, and looked up at him. Her arms were still gripping his shoulders tightly when she asked. “But are you okay?”

Harry laughed, albeit quietly. “I’m on top of the world, Hermione. All of my plans have come to fruit. Just the way I wanted.”

Hermione looked at him pityingly, and it was so hard to bear that Harry had to take a moment to collect himself.

“I’m tired,” he said with a yawn. “See you in the morning?”

“See you in the morning,” she said, glum.

They walked up the stairs together, and Harry smiled at her again, before shutting his bedroom door, and folding into the bed. He did not get changed. He couldn’t be bothered. Instead, he closed his eyes, and dropped off into a thick, dreamless sleep.

How To Come Home

War is not kind to families. It steals men from their homes, and kills women in the cold uncaring night. People disappear into systems too convoluted to search. Battle is a machine with a limited range of household functions. Death, is a certainty. Family, futile. Staying in contact, staying together, are both ideals that become unrealistic in the context of world wide chaos. Afterwards, the coming home can be just as challenging as the break.

“I’m sorry,” said David.

He rarely uttered those words, but for once, he did so without regret. He mean them so whole-heartedly that it was impossible to be insincere. And he was sorry. Here was a woman who was searching for exactly the same things that he was, a family, and people to belong with. How could Harry have tried to dupe someone whose desires were so aligned with David’s?

“I suspect,” said the duchess dryly, “That you have been on some journey. Do not apologise to me. I do not think you have committed any grave sins.”

“No,” said David. “I wouldn’t. I swear it.”

The duchess laughed. “Then you may call me Andromeda.”

David blanched. It was so personal. The duchess must have anticipated his reaction, because she stopped smiling that soft smile she had worn on her lips since he had met her properly, and eyed him sternly. “That was not a suggestion,” she said, repeating his words from earlier. “That was a command.”

David felt his cheeks grow hot. He had been very abrupt with Harry earlier, not undeservedly, though he was somewhat abashed to know that Andromeda had heard the whole thing.

“Did I hear correctly earlier, in that you hit Mister Potter?”

David nodded sheepishly, and wished for the ground to swallow him up. He stood straighter so the embarrassment might not show on his face.

“Hmm,” said Andromeda. “You do look like him. Though, I will readily admit that you don’t seem so spoiled. And, my Draco would never have hit anyone. Even in a fury he preferred threats.”

David pinked. “I tried those too. But sometimes, one is simply so cross that it cannot be helped.”

“What do you call yourself.”

“David,” David said. “Markova.”

Andromeda nodded. “I should like to have morning tea with you, David Markova. But not tonight. If you will excuse me, I think a cab should do just the trick. I will have someone telephone Miss Granger with the details, d’accord?”

“Yes,” said David. “Of course, I agree.” 

Andromeda nodded. “Then goodbye, for tonight.”

She leant over to kiss him on the cheek, and David was accosted by the most familiar perfume he had ever come across. She did it again, on the other cheek, not realising that David had been struck dumb. That smell, that smell. Like something from a dream. When David looked up, it was with tears in his eyes.

“Jasmine,” he said, choking. “You smell like jasmine. And you have always smelt like jasmine.”

Andromeda stepped back, frowning. “Are you quite well?”

But David’s eyes had gone glassy, stuck in an age past. Figures danced gracefully through the periphery of his memory, and at the forefront, stood a pale man and woman, like Adam and Eve.

They embraced him warmly. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, his mind supplied. Or, Father and Mother. David let loose an anguished cry, and collapsed down into Hermione’s chaise.

“Are you quite alright?” said Andromeda, unsettled, and repetitive.

“I—” David, or was it Draco, looked up at the woman who might be his aunt with fresh eyes. “I’ve always liked jasmine.” he said.

Andromeda looked at the ground. “So did Draco,” she said.

“I know,” Draco said.

“Oh, my darling. Oh, my poor, poor darling. What have the years done to you.”

Draco looked away, her hand was soft on his cheek. He could feel the tears that he had not shed earlier, dripping down his cheeks. When he looked at Andromeda again, she was crying too, though her face was split by a magnificent smile. They embraced. And cried. And embraced. And cried. Until it seemed as though they would never stop embracing or crying. Neither of them had to say a word, all that might have been spoken aloud was communicated silently.

“I have something,” said Draco.

His hands shook as he pulled the medallion from his front pocket. “You gave it to me.”

Andromeda nodded, she traced a finger over the edge of the word ‘Together’.

“In Paris,” finished Draco, out loud.

“This is real.” said Andromeda.

“It doesn’t feel like it.” said Draco.

Andromeda looked him in the eye. “It does, to me.”

“I’m very glad.”

Draco put the medallion back in his pocket, and sighed once. “It’s a lot,” he said. “So much has happened. And some of it is not in my head. Some of it I can’t remember at all.”

“I suggest,” said Andromeda, sitting down, and pouring another two cups of tea from a kettle that must have been prepared earlier. “That you start from the beginning, Draco.”

Draco moved into the chair that sat opposite her, crossing his ankles so that he wouldn’t tap his foot.

“I would be honoured.”

 

**Harry**

When he woke up, they were gone. Harry looked at himself in the mirror, saw the rumpled suit, the cheap haircut, and the calloused workers hands. It was all for the better, really. This was how the story was supposed to end. The lost prince had been returned to his palace, his sparkling life, and his noble heritage. Harry would find another moment to seize. One that would not cost him so much.

 

**High Society**

Two weeks had rushed by without Draco’s full comprehension. Those fourteen days had been whirl-wind rush of newspaper articles, reunions with people he did not quite remember, and of course, time with Andromeda. Two days ago he had received an express postage from Saint Petersburg that said nothing but ‘I am proud of you, Maxime. P.S. Please visit somewhere fashionable for me’.

Draco had enjoyed obeying that command. He had enjoyed obeying that command so much that he had obeyed it almost every day since he had remembered who he was. For the first time since arriving at the orphanage, he felt as though he understood himself. The knowledge of his past was powerful. Now, his identity was informed by the up-bringing he had forgotten. He had a better idea why he said and did certain things, and where he had inherited certain behaviours.

It had not all been fun and games. The immediate onslaught of memories had brought an immediate realisation of grief. It had been years since his parents died, but his mourning had only truly began when he regained knowledge of them, and what they had done for him. It would take years before he fully recovered from the shock of it, from the brutal way they had been killed; shot by military men in the cellar of a bakery. Like dogs. He prayed they were watching over him, satisfied with the way he had handled his life.

Through all this, another thought lingered. Permanent and haunting, like a shit stain, was the black memory of Harry Potter. Draco had not forgiven him. Was annoyed, even now, that the mere recollection of his behaviour was enough to have Draco cursing like a sailor.

He knew that he might have to see Harry again. The public interest in his story had meant that Harry’s involvement had eventually been discovered, and people were keen to see him rewarded. He knew that Andromeda had organised a meeting with Harry sometime that evening, after the ball, so they might exchange bank details and organise a deposit. Draco scoffed. As though they owed Harry anything.

He peered at himself in the mirror, and was struck by a queer feeling of deja-vu. He had not worn the Imperial Robes since he had been a child. Now, he wore them like a man. His shoulders had grown broad enough to carry the military style, and the bright red jacket reminded him of the strength and vigour he would need to proceed into the next chapter of his strange life.

An ornamental sword rested at the side of his hip. He was ready. He walked through the halls of Tonks Manor, and knew how much he had changed.

Years ago, he might not ever have deigned visit the house of a business man, but he had learned the value of human beings since then.

“Andromeda,” he said.

She and her husband were sitting at a writing desk. Theodore was writing a letter. Andromeda was petting Cat.

“Oh, Draco, mon-cherie, come here.” she beckoned him closer.

“It’s beautiful,” said Draco, looking down at the pendant.

“Your father wore it the day of his coronation,” she said. “I don’t have your mother’s.”

“Thankyou.” said Draco.

“I want you to wear it.” she said.

“I’d be glad to.”

He kissed Andromeda on both cheeks, and shook Theodore’s hand. He had come to respect the man a great deal, and was excited to meet their daughter when she came home from sea.

“Shall we?” said Theodore.

They walked through the halls, and came to a small entry hall. A red curtain separated it, from the ballroom.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

And he was. He entered the room without trepidation. He was home. This was his life.

 

**Voldemort**

They had landed in Paris. Wormtail remained unimpressed. It was one thing to be a rat in Russia, where the vermin carried disease, but quite another to be a rat in Paris, where the vermin carried disease and attitude problems.

Voldemort had discovered a particularly dank oubliette beneath a church. It was situated between a collection of catacombs, and thus the walls were decorated with a mishmash of human bones. This disgusted Wormtail, but was right in line with Voldemort’s preferred aesthetic. There was a damp smell, and Wormtail couldn’t help but feel as though he had began to moulder just by being there.

“Master,” he said with a squeak. “How much longer?”   
“Patience, minion.”

Wormtail did not bother pointing out what a hypocritical statement that was. He suspected he might be rewarded with a lynching should he dare challenge Voldemort now, when the stakes were so high.

“Yes, master.” he said, making sure to sound grovelling.

Voldemort smiled slowly (he rarely did so at speed), and crooked a finger. “Here, Wormtail, read.”

Wormtail read the newspaper article quickly. Draco Malfoy had been reunited with his aunt. He would be attending a ball at Tonks Manor in honour of his return. Wormtail fought the urge to sigh. When he had signed on as the minion to a potential evil overlord, he had not expected their occupation to be so monotonous.

“This is the opportunity I have been waiting for,” said Voldemort. “The time to strike has come. At last.”

 

**Fight or Flight**

_The instinctive physiological response to a threatening situation, which readies one either to resist forcibly or run away._

“No thankyou,” said Draco to Astoria Greengrass, all grown up.

She was smiling eagerly, as she clutched a large baby-book with both hands. “Oh he’s just adorable, Draco. You’ll love him. There was one photo we had taken, where he had started to chew on a wooden soldier. And—”

Draco no longer felt as though he had missed out on years of experiences. Astoria Greengrass, or Nott, he supposed he should call her, had filled him in on everything he might have ever wanted to know. Three years worth of images of her baby, were not on his agenda. He smiled politely as she cooed over the first three pages, and then he made his escape. It wasn’t that she was an unpleasant girl, thought Draco, it was just that there was something very sickening in being so openly in love.

He said as much, to Blaise Zabini, another old play mate, who laughed dryly. “Malfoy,” he said. “That’s just the beginning of it, be thankful she didn’t bring the wedding photos.”

Draco groaned.

A waltz began to play, and his card filled up slowly but surely. He spent the next half hour alternating between dance partners.

 

Draco had danced with seven people when a song came to an abrupt end and he stepped out onto the balcony for some air, snagging a glass of champagne on his way. So far, the party had been a tremendous success. He had danced with several pretty women, and even some pretty men. The music had been to his taste, and all the while, Andromeda and Theodore had been nearby. His family. He couldn’t stop saying that. Family. Living breathing reminders of his heritage, who cared about him and shared his values. He pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket, and lit up.

“Damn,” said Draco, choking on a puff of smoke; Cat had somehow escaped the room they had locked her in, and was wandering about the garden.

Draco jumped the fence and landed in a rose bush. “Damn,” he said again, leaping to a stand and hurrying down the path. As he ran, he lost sight of Cat. The bushes became more and more wild, intertwining with each other to create large, thorny structures.

At a cross roads, he took the left turn, thinking that he had heard Cat rustle in the bushes somewhere down the path. When he turned around, there was no way back. Beginning to panic, Draco breathed as deeply as he could. It wouldn’t do to let himself grow anxious. He turned this way and that, before finally settling on another path and marching off with determination.

He ignored the unnatural stillness in the air, and the silence.

If anyone, anyone at all, had been watching, they would have seen a prince swallowed by darkness, and known that something was deeply, unequivocally wrong. 

But no one was watching, and so Draco disappeared quietly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost there! thanks to everyone who left support in comments and kudos, you all have kept me motivated!
> 
> I'm spindlekiss on tumblr if you'd like to chat! :)


End file.
